


Something Borrowed

by EachPeachPearPlum



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst, Break Up, Engagement, F/M, Happy Ending, Infidelity, M/M, Marriage, More angst, Pining, Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-06
Updated: 2014-04-06
Packaged: 2018-01-18 09:52:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 48,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1424167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EachPeachPearPlum/pseuds/EachPeachPearPlum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Merlin proposes to his sister, Arthur knows nothing will ever be the same between them, and he can live with that. He won't be happy about it, but even if he's loved Merlin for years, he's not going to stand up at their wedding shouting, "I object," not when it won't do him any good.<br/>And then the stag night happens.<br/>(Merlin/Morgana, with Merlin/Arthur as the endgame)</p>
<p> </p>
<p>(For the prompt: Arthur should be happy for his sister and his best friend of seventeen years as they embrace and kiss to the sounds of cheers and triumphant wedding bells)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bloodsongs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodsongs/gifts).



> [Art](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1422589) by bloodsongs.
> 
> I do not have words for how much love and adoration I have for my beta and friend, the fantastic [daroh](http://archiveofourown.org/users/daroh/pseuds/daroh), who has gone above and beyond every since she bullied me into signing up for this fest. Hands have been held, support has been given, and every time I wanted to give up and cry, she convinced me not to; without her, this fic would never have been finished.
> 
> Thanks also to [detotchkina](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Detochkina/works), who not only allowed me to pre-read her incredible entry for the rbb but then insisted she be allowed to help put the finishing touches to mine in return. I am forever in your debt.
> 
> Any remaining mistakes are mine and mine alone.

_Something old,_  
 _Something new,_  
 _Something borrowed,_  
 _Something blue._

__

X

“Arthur,” Morgana calls, walking into his house without so much as a courtesy knock. Yes, Arthur has given her a key, and yes, they shared a womb for nine months and baths for several years after that, but the key is supposed to be for emergencies only, and the years in which Arthur shared everything with his sister are long gone. “You home, little brother?”

Arthur looks up from his place on the sofa to the door Morgana is closing behind her, resisting the urge to point out that fifteen minutes hardly counts, mostly because she laughed him out of making that argument at least a decade ago. “Do come in, Morgana. It’s lovely to see you. Can I offer you a drink?”

“No,” Morgana says, ignoring his sarcasm as she ignores everything else that doesn’t suit her purpose. “Although you might want one. This isn’t a social call, Arthur.”

“Funnily enough, I hadn't thought it was. You’ve never visited anyone without at least two ulterior motives in your life.”

Morgana smiles without humour, but then Arthur’s jokes have never amused her all that much. She slides her coat down her arms and hangs it on one of the hooks by the door, then crosses the room without taking her shoes off, her heels leaving little indentations in the carpet that slowly fade like footprints in the sand. The sofa hardly shifts at all as she sits beside him, curling her feet up underneath her and never mind the leather.

“Arthur,” she says again, so quiet he has to lean in to hear her. “Merlin is going to ask me to marry him.”

Heart sinking through his stomach, Arthur forces a smile onto his face; Morgana may know him well enough to know that it’s not real, but that doesn’t mean he can’t try for her. His sister. His best friend. He’s happy for them. “Congratulations! I’m so happy for you.”

Morgana’s eyes narrow, and Arthur knows she knows his cheer is faker than Katie Price’s tits. “Save it until he gives me the ring, brother,” she says, drier than the Sahara, before turning on him with a disturbing intensity.

“Tell me not to,” she says, wrapping her hand around his, talons shielded enough that she’s not quite drawing blood. “Tell me to say no and I will, Arthur. Tell me to leave him and it’s over.”

For once, Arthur doesn’t pretend not to know what she’s talking about. It’s far from the first time Morgana has made hints about his feelings for Merlin; she told him the same thing years ago, the first time Arthur walked into a room to find the pair of them kissing and refused to speak to either of them for a week without even realising why he was so angry. _Tell me not to_ , she said. _Tell me to stay away from him and it’ll never happen again._

He’d laughed, then, mystified and lost, because Merlin was his best friend and Morgana was his sister and there was no reason for him to hate the idea of them together. _No reason_ , he told himself, and continued telling himself right until he realised there actually was.

Today, he isn’t laughing; he might still be lying to the rest of the world, might successfully have kept all the truths he cannot say from everyone but his sister, but Arthur has stopped lying to himself.

In the darker part of himself, the part he hates most of all, he thinks about doing it. Morgana wouldn’t make him give a reason, not when she already knows it. She would just nod, smile like she’s proud of him, and go home to Merlin one last time before packing up and moving out.

All Arthur has to do to stop them marrying is admit he wants to. Three words, _don’t marry him_ , and he will never have to watch the man he loves swear to love only his sister until he dies.

Three words, _don’t marry him_ , and Arthur will break two hearts, with nothing at all to show for it. Merlin loves his sister, will still love her even if the two of them break up. Arthur will never have him.

“I’m happy for you, ‘Gana,” he says again, because whatever choice he makes, he loses, and at least this way the two people that matter most to him are whole and happy.

Morgana smiles at him, her expression equal parts joy and sorrow, so clearly relieved she doesn’t have to keep her promise, so clearly sad that, even now, he just isn’t as brave as she wants him to be.

She doesn’t speak, though, merely sweeps to her feet and stalks out, disappearing with as little warning and as much drama as she arrived.

X

It’s only when he reaches the gates to the garden of Morgana’s childhood home that Merlin realises how ridiculous an idea this is; Arthur would laugh so hard he’d probably wet himself if he knew what Merlin was planning, and Morgana…Morgana would be either amused or offended, maybe equal parts of both. They wouldn’t understand, and Merlin doesn’t quite get it himself, but the gates are opening and it’s too late to turn around and go back now.

He presses his left foot to the clutch, then tries a second time because his car rivals the Pendragons for stubbornness sometimes, finally managing to jam it into first and set off down the stupidly long private road Uther considers an appropriate length for a driveway.

Geoffrey meets him at the front door, wearing the same expression he usually does when Merlin shows up here; Uther might not hold too much of a grudge for the time Merlin and Arthur rearranged all the books in the library by colour rather than alphabetically by author, but the butler still doesn’t think Merlin should be allowed inside unless accompanied by a responsible adult (and no, Arthur and Morgana don’t count).

“The children aren’t here, Mr Emrys,” Geoffrey says, his face the perfect picture of a woman who smells something foul but is too polite to mention it, if in a slightly overweight, bearded and balding fashion.

“I know,” Merlin says; since Morgana lives with him and everyone knows Arthur always works late on Thursdays before going back to his flat, it would be a little unusual for him not to. “I was hoping to see Uth- Mr Pendragon. I called ahead to check he’d be home.”

Geoffrey sniffs but steps aside, glaring at Merlin’s car like its mere presence outside the house is devaluing the entire county. Merlin makes a point of locking it, purely because, as Arthur has said for years, he can be an obnoxious brat when it suits him.

“Mr Pendragon is in his office,” Geoffrey says, his shiny shoes making no noise at all on the genuine wooden floorboards, even as Merlin’s beaten-down converse slip-slap their way across the threshold. “If you would wait here, I shall inform him of your presence.”

Merlin smiles, too familiar with the ways of the house to fall for that again; the last time he agreed to wait in the hall, he was sixteen and coming over to play video games with Arthur, only to be left abandoned in the hall for almost an hour before Arthur came to investigate why he was even later than usual. “It’s no trouble, Geoff,” he says, enjoying the way the crease between Geoffrey’s brows deepens slightly, the old man too polite to correct a guest (be it a self-invited one like Merlin) even if he wants to. “I remember where it is.”

He’s off before the butler can object, taking the stairs two at a time, faster than he knows Geoffrey will be able to follow him. “Thanks,” he calls from the top, leaning over the banister just to be sure he’s getting the full effect of the glare Geoffrey’s shooting at him.

The house has always been far too large for three people, even more so now that it’s only Uther living here, and it takes Merlin far too long to reach Uther’s office, way off in that part of the house they were never allowed in as kids. Noisy children with sticky fingers had no place there, he’d been told more than once, and even now, definitely not a child anymore, Merlin has trouble shaking the feeling that he’s out of bounds.

Still, he’s come this far, and there’s no prize for chickening out at this point; Morgana would be even less impressed by that than his being there in the first place, Uther would be furious at him for arranging to see him and then not showing up, and Arthur…Arthur’s laughter would probably go from pissing himself to killing himself, the bastard, and then who would Merlin ask to be his best man?

Merlin taps a slightly shaky hand on Uther’s office door, waiting for an answer from the voice that doomed far too many childhood games.

And there it is, with a soft and slightly stormy, “Come in.”

Merlin does, hovering in the doorway as Uther stares at the papers scattered across the desk before him, and he’d forgotten how dark this room is. It’s no surprise Uther is such an irritable git, really, when he spends most of his life surrounded by dark wood panelling and leather-bound books so dull Merlin doesn’t think anyone has actually read them in decades. Even the sunlight seems to stop short at the window, blocked by the thick velvet curtains even when they’re open.

“Is the irritating Emrys boy here already?” Uther asks, not looking up, and Merlin fights down a nervous giggle. “Send him through, please, Geoffrey.”

“I thought you’d say that,” Merlin answers, relishing the way the expression on Uther’s face is probably the closest thing the old bastard can get to looking embarrassed. “So I figured I’d save Geoffrey’s legs the trip up here and back again.”

Uther recovers quickly, stacking his papers into a single pile and fixing a not-quite smile on his face. “I see,” he says, the same way he used to after Merlin, Arthur and Morgana garbled out an explanation for breaking yet another unspeakably expensive family heirloom (usually Merlin, if he's honest, but Morgana was willing to share the blame from time to time). “Sit, then, Mr Emrys.”

Merlin obeys, largely out of habit; he knows from more than a decade of being summoned in here with Arthur for a scolding that the chairs Uther keeps for guests in his office are not at all comfortable, but he also knows from experience that opposing Uther on something as small as this will only lead to misery later on. “Thank you,” he says, again from habit, although this time it’s one encouraged by his mother. Unfortunately, Hunith’s lessons on manners never touched on how to ask his girlfriend’s father for her hand in marriage, and all the things Merlin had planned on his way up here suddenly sound pretty ridiculous.

“Why did you come here?” Uther asks eventually, storming through the awkward silence as he storms through everything else. “One assumes you have a reason for interrupting my rather busy schedule.”

In answer, Merlin pulls a blue velvet ring box from his pocket. It’s a little battered, one of the corners indented slightly, the velvet scuffed from where generations of Emrys men have passed it from hand to hand, terrified of being refused. “I want to ask Morgana to marry me,” he says, opening the box to show Uther the ring that came to him from his mother. Nothing fancy, not really, nothing like the beautiful heirlooms Morgana and Arthur grew up with, things too precious for children to touch.

“It was my mother’s,” he says, “And my grandmother’s before that. I know it’s not much, but I could save every spare penny I earn for the rest of my life and I still wouldn’t have enough to buy anything half as good as what you probably think she deserves.”

Uther frowns his _Pest, why do I humour your foolish desire to breathe?_ frown, and Merlin feels the need to continue before his hopefully-soon-to-be father-in-law (and oh, god, he’s only just realising that if Morgana doesn’t turn him down flat he’s going to be related to this man) decides to act on his threat.

“It’s not much,” he says a second time, “And you probably think Morgana deserves better than this – hell, you probably think that she deserves better than me, too, but I love her, and I have to hope that means more to you than how much money I earn or who my family is.”

For a long time, Uther continues his stare, strict and severe and, really, Merlin isn’t a whole lot less scared of him now than he was as a kid. It’s stupid, because it’s a ridiculously archaic tradition to ask a man for his daughter’s hand before proposing to her, and it’s not like Uther’s refusal is going to stop him. It’s not going to stop Morgana, either, he doesn’t think, and some tiny part of him argues that, actually, the fact that her father disapproves of him might end up working in his favour, but he squashes it quickly; if Morgana marries him, he doesn’t want it to just be because it’ll piss off her father. He wants it to be because she loves him as much as he loves her, because she feels - as he does - that this is the only possible future that makes sense.

“I love her,” Merlin repeats, as if that’ll help anything. “I love her more than pretty much anything, and I would like very much if you were okay with me marrying her.”

“Have you spoken to Arthur about this?” Uther asks, and Merlin really wasn’t expecting that. It’s not a _no_ , which is great, but at least that would have made sense.

“Nuh-ohhh,” he says, confusion or possibly just concern dragging the word into two syllables. “Do you think I should ask his permission?” Oh, please let Uther be suggesting he asks Arthur's permission, because the possibility he knows about the crush Merlin used to have on Arthur is just far too awful.

Uther doesn’t answer, but then when his expression conveys perfectly well how stupid he thinks Merlin is, he doesn’t really need to. Of course, Merlin doesn’t actually know why he’s stupid on this particular occasion (he’s not the one who brought up Arthur, after all), but it’s still pretty damn obvious how little Uther thinks of his intelligence.

Eventually, Uther seems to tire of wordlessly calling Merlin a whole variety of synonyms for _idiot_. “Mr Emrys,” he says, then rolls his eyes and actually seems to relax a little, dropping his shoulders and massaging his left temple. “Merlin, I’m not a young man anymore. I’d quite like grandchildren before I die.”

“Um,” Merlin says, because it’s about the only thing he can say to that.

“You have my permission,” Uther says. “I cannot say whether that will help or hinder your case, but you have it. I trust that you will do all you can to make my children happy.”

“Um,” Merlin says again, confusion over that last sentence temporarily supplanting his gratitude.

“You have my permission,” Uther repeats, looking back down at his paper-covered desk. “That will be all, Mr Emrys.”

Dismissed and still so very confused, Merlin stands up, heading back through the maze of hallways to the front door and his car.

_Pendragons,_ he thinks. He’s never going to understand them.

X

Morgana can pinpoint the moment she fell for Merlin, which is how she knows for sure Arthur was there first.

They met an eternity ago, when Arthur was even more of an insufferable little turd than he is now and Morgana still believed half the bullshit Uther spouted on a daily basis, and back then Merlin and Arthur’s relationship could really only be described as _hate at first sight_. Arthur was used to getting his own way, to people doing exactly what he told them to do, exactly when he told them to do it, and the tiny new scholarship kid with his second-hand, two-sizes-too-big uniform didn’t so much throw a spanner in the works as an entire toolbox, and then some.

From the offset, Merlin had pressed all of Arthur’s buttons, returned every insult with one just as vehement (odd, certainly, but no one can deny Merlin’s jibes are heartfelt), and was almost as good at managing Arthur’s temper as Morgana. Arthur pushed, Merlin pushed back harder, and for years, Morgana thought her boys (that’s what they are, even if she doesn’t tell them it) would hate each other forever.

And then Uther caught her with a boy in her room when she was fourteen – a boy not her brother or Merlin, who was, as far as her father was concerned, gayer than a unicorn skipping over a rainbow and about as much threat as a raisin – and packed her off to an all-girl school a million miles from everyone she knew. No more Merlin, almost no Arthur, and at some point in the four years she was gone, the two of them got over their petty hatred.

At some point in the years she was gone, Arthur fell in love.

They still sniped at each other (still do, always will), still fought and bickered and argued more than they breathed, but the venom was gone, replaced by an entirely different kind of heat. The fights were much more entertaining to watch, once she knew she wouldn’t have to step in to stop her brother stealing Merlin’s toys or bashing him over the head whenever they disagreed (well, Arthur never hit Merlin with any real force anymore, which was almost the same thing), but at the same time there was something to it that made it feel almost voyeuristic to watch them, so much so that for the first week she was back Morgana was convinced they were getting it on.

They weren’t, or so Merlin’s awkward _I’ve never done this before_ confession the first time she slept with him suggested, but that week was probably what made her see Merlin as someone real, someone grownup, someone other than the gawky kid she’d known since they were seven.

He wasn’t her usual type, but he made up for the lack of brawn with an excess of brain. Merlin was shy where all her previous boyfriends had been bold, skinny instead of strong, way kinder than the dickheads she’d gone with before, and far more interested in talking to her than getting her out of her knickers, at least at first.

Maybe it was the challenge that sucked her in, maybe the sibling rivalry that neither she nor Arthur had ever really managed to get a hold of, or maybe it was the way Merlin blushed when, a week after she’d gotten back from school, he’d seen her padding down the hall from the bathroom to her bedroom wrapped in just a towel. Blushed, averted his eyes (like he didn’t know why she’d been sent away and just how deserved her bad reputation probably was - or, for that matter, like the towel didn’t cover way more than the dress she’d worn to her welcome home party the night before), and dropped the bottles of beer he’d been carrying upstairs.

“Put some clothes on, you tart,” Arthur had said, fondly exasperated, coming out to investigate the sound of shattering glass. “Merlin, stop being such a blushing maiden and get something to clean this up with. Honestly, half the world’s seen her tits, it’s not like you need to look away.”

Merlin blinked, blushed harder, and refused to make eye contact with either of them. “Even if that was true,” he said, halfway between defiance and shame, “It wouldn’t be a good enough reason to stare. Sorry, Morgana.”

He turned and went back downstairs then, and Morgana saw that the flush on his cheeks went all the way around the back of his neck, too.

"Brother," she said quietly, watching Merlin practically run away from them, "if you're planning on shagging him, tell me now, otherwise I'm going to have to."

Arthur just gaped at her like the possibility hadn't even occurred to him. "We are talking about Merlin, aren't we?"

"Thank you, Arthur," she answered, standing on tiptoe to kiss him on the cheek and allowing herself one last laugh at the look on his face.

"Can I come back upstairs yet?" Merlin called, and there was no way, she realised, that anyone could be with her brother and still be that innocent, still be that sweet. There was no way he was Arthur's, and since Arthur apparently wasn't even aware he wanted him to be, there was nothing to stop her.

And that, she thinks, was it. Game over and, as shitty as she feels sometimes when she catches Arthur watching them with an expression more wistful than jealous, she’s just not selfless enough to wish it was otherwise.

X

Merlin is already home when Morgana gets back, has clearly been there a while; the floors have been vacuumed, the surfaces dusted, and the bathroom can only be described as gleaming, but it’s when she goes into the bedroom to change out of her uncomfortably pressed work clothes that Morgana is most impressed.

All the clothes littering the floor (his and hers, because Merlin has never really cared too much about the mess and, of Morgana’s many rebellions, it’s the ones that started out smallest that have lasted the longest) are gone, the bed has been made (and not just in the scruffy, _I’ve just changed the sheets and this is as close to tidy as I can be bothered with making it_ way that Merlin usually leaves it) and, most of all, the place seems to have been covered in enough lit candles to give a fire-safety officer a heart attack.

In the middle of it all, leaning over to hold a lighter to one last candle, is Merlin, her Merlin, and Morgana really doesn’t know what to think of it all.

“Hey,” Merlin says, soft and awed, and Morgana’s hands freeze on the buttons of her blouse, halfway through unfastening them. “Want a hand with those?”

“What’s the occasion?” she asks, since a scathing _I have mastered buttons, you know_ won’t go down well, and she loves him enough that she won’t ruin this for him.

“You know full well what the occasion is,” Merlin says, and even though he has to know the retort she had ready to fly, he thinks nothing of sliding into her space and flicking the rest of her buttons free with deft fingers. “I know you know,” he continues, quieter now, closer, nuzzling at her neck as he slides her blouse down her arms and off, the silk pooling on the floor around her feet like water.

“I have to say,” she says, his mouth dragging hot over her collarbone towards her shoulder as his hands rest feather-light on her hips. “I was expecting rose petals. I’m a little disappointed.”

Merlin laughs, a tad self-deprecating, as his laugh usually is. “I know, it’s lame,” he says. “And it’s cheesy and ridiculous, but I love you, and I kind of hoped you might just take it as a romantic gesture and ignore the lameness.” He pauses, smiling against her skin. “Of course, I could always call the whole thing off. Put out the candles, clear all this up, return that really expensive bottle of red, the same one we had in Rome two years ago…”

“Don’t you dare,” Morgana says, sliding her hands under his shirt, mapping the planes of his stomach as she has a thousand times or more; her Merlin, her heart. “Shouldn’t there be more kneeling involved in this?”

Merlin kisses her like the world is ending, all the sweetness of their first kiss and all the fire she’d want for their last, even though she wants more than almost anything for there not to be a last. “If you’re offering,” he says softly, catching her bottom lip with his teeth as he pulls back. “No bloke is ever going to say no to that, particularly not when it’s you.”

“Perv,” she mutters, but the only spark to it is the one curling inside her, an ember burning low but ready to blaze as soon as it’s fed. “Can’t you just hurry up and propose already, so that we can get to the good stuff?”

Unfortunately, Merlin seems to take that as his cue to stop (she’d call it stupid boy-logic, but in truth it’s probably just stupid Merlin-logic), or at least to slow down in a fairly major way; his hands drop, hanging limply by his sides, and his mouth is distressingly far away from hers.

“Is that a yes?” he asks, and the wonder in his voice and on his face suggests that he actually thought there was a chance of her turning him down. It’s sweet, and silly, and so very Merlin that she can’t resist dragging it out a little longer.

“I wasn’t aware you’d actually asked me anything yet.”

Merlin takes a step back, then a second, and clasps her left hand in both of his, then drops to his knees. It’s unexpected, even after the over-the-top romantic gestures he’s made already, and Morgana has never been so glad that Merlin isn’t really one for public displays of affection, because there’s no way her face doesn’t show how melt-y she feels right now; in private, just between the two of them, it’s okay, but in public, it would probably only turn her into a monster. If Merlin ever made a spectacle like this in public, she'd be obliged to turn him down just to save face, even if she'd have to engage in some form of ritual suicide afterwards.

“Morgana,” he says, kneeling before her and lifting her hand to his mouth, his eyes so intent on hers that she can almost believe she’s the centre of his world, the only one he’ll ever see, and it hardly matters that standing half-naked in their bedroom wasn’t how she saw this moment going. It only matters that it’s Merlin and that, here and now, he is hers.

“Will you marry me?” he asks, and that is it; maybe it should feel anticlimactic after the candles and the cleaning and the wine he must have spent ages trying to get hold of and a fortune buying once he actually tracked it down, but mostly it just feels like Merlin.

Even if Arthur had asked her to, she's not sure she could ever have said no.

X

Arthur knows, the second Merlin offers to buy him lunch, exactly what he wants to talk to him about. He also knows that today is going to be far, far worse than yesterday.

“I can’t, really,” he says, barely glancing up from his computer. “I’m just a little too busy, today.”

His barely-a-glance is still too much of a glance, though, because Merlin is looking at him pathetically, beseechingly, the _please, Arthur, please_ look he’s made a mission of ruining Arthur’s life with.

“Come on, Arthur, please,” he says, just in case the look wasn’t persuasion enough for him. “The world won’t end if you escape for half an hour, and I want to talk to you.”

“Working, Merlin,” Arthur argues, but it’s already too late, and he and Merlin both know it, both know that, somehow, Merlin always gets his way.

“But-”

“No.”

“Arthur-”

“ _No_.”

“I’ll never ask you for anything else.”

“Yes, you will.”

“I promise, Arthur. Never.”

Arthur sighs, rolling his eyes. “You always make promises you can’t keep, Merlin,” he says, because the very next time Merlin wants something Arthur can help him with, he’ll be back again, begging eyes and all. He’ll be back, and Arthur will be just as incapable of saying no then as he is now.

“Half an hour,” he concedes, standing up and putting his laptop to sleep. “That is it, and we’re not just going to one of your germ-infested burger vans, either.”

Merlin grins his million-watt grin, snickers nervously enough that Arthur knows he has no idea where to go now that he’s nixed that idea, and as good as skips from the office.

X

They end up in some fuddy-duddy cafe, full of doilies and ugly fake flowers in massive planters, but Merlin is making a point and his point is that there are worse places than the burger van opposite Arthur’s work.

His point is well and truly made, and they both know it, even if Arthur is too stubborn to tell him he wins, stubborn enough that they will eat their lunch here, surrounded by old married couples bickering with their friends about who has the most successful grandchildren. And the doilies. Far too many doilies, although Merlin isn’t entirely sure that it’s possible to have any doilies without automatically having too many.

Still, he’s won, and that makes it a lot easier for Merlin to smile through his nerves, even if he’s still hiding his hands in his lap to conceal their shaking.

“So she said yes, then,” Arthur says, as they look through pages and pages of sandwich and soup options, his tone more fitting for asking if Merlin’s mother is dead, which is a tad off-putting.

“I know she’s your sister,” Merlin answers, “But you could try being a little excited for me. It’s hardly the end of the world.”

“I’m very happy for you.” _When’s the funeral?_

Merlin is saved from having to come up with any kind of response (which is good, since the woman, eighty if she’s a day but remarkably swift with her knitting needles, sat at the table next to them probably wouldn’t appreciate his language) by the arrival of a waitress. She’s young, compared to all the patrons other than them, and she looks like she’s trying to decide whether to take their order or ask if they’re lost.

Arthur saves her the trouble, ordering a ham and cheese sandwich, then actually looks at Merlin for the first time since they left his office.

“Oh,” Merlin says, and he doesn’t really want to say he’s not ready when Arthur has already ordered, even if he hasn’t actually opened the menu yet. “Yeah, I’ll have the same,” he finishes, smiling as winningly as he can. “And a banana milkshake, please.”

“Flirt,” Arthur mutters, after she’s smiled back and returned to the counter. “Shouldn’t you be stopping that now?”

“I was being polite,” Merlin says. “ _Nice_. You should probably try it sometime.”

Arthur frowns at him, the same irritation that Merlin thinks caused his initial refusal to come out making a comeback, and with it Merlin’s nervousness crashes down again. It’s stupid, senseless, but Merlin thinks he’s probably more nervous now than he was when he proposed to Morgana, even though it’s only Arthur. It’s not like Merlin’s asking him to marry him, just to stand there and smile when he marries Morgana. It's not like Arthur will say no, the way he expected Morgana to,

Arthur’s frown and Merlin’s inexplicable jitters last until their lunches arrive, by which point the silence is looming pretty obviously.

“So Morgana said yes,” Arthur says eventually, and it as good as shatters all the momentum Merlin has built up, all the effort he’s put in to making himself speak.

“Yeah,” he answers, even though it still isn’t a question. “She told you she found the ring, then? I thought for once I’d actually managed to hide something somewhere she wouldn’t find it.”

Arthur smiles a death-bed smile. “Not so much,” he answers, and Merlin thinks of the smile Morgana had given him when he told her he knew she knew, her _I know everything_ smile, and, really, Merlin has never doubted that she does. “She told me you were going to ask her, though.”

“Right,” Merlin says, because it’s easier than trying to work out the ins and outs of Morgana’s apparent prescience. “So, I proposed, and she said yes, and…” he pauses, those nerves again, creeping and cruel, wrapping around his throat and putting a tremble in his voice to match the one in his hands. “And so I’ve been thinking, about all the planning and whatever, and I don’t much care about where we have it or what kind of service it is. I’ll let Morgana sort all that, it’s her day and it doesn’t matter to me. But…”

He pauses again, takes a fortifying gulp of milkshake (better than alcohol any day, he thinks, at least in terms of liquid courage), then finishes his request in a rush. “But I do know one thing I want for it, and that’s that you be there. Arthur, will you be my best man?”

X

And there it is, Arthur thinks, the question he was waiting for, the question Merlin has spent so long building up to, and maybe his instinctive reaction to Merlin asking him a question is to give him whatever he wants but that doesn’t mean he does, and it doesn’t mean he’s going to now. He will not stop Merlin marrying Morgana, will not take their happiness from them so cavalierly, but he won’t be there to watch it, either.

“I’d love to, Merlin,” he says, and for a fraction of a second Merlin’s face lights up. “But I can’t,” he concludes, “It’s a very busy time at work right now.”

“We haven’t even set a date yet.”

That, Arthur thinks, is a distressingly fair point, and something he probably should have been smart enough to take into account before using such a dismal excuse. “Yes,” he says; in for a penny, in for a pound. “However, things at work are always busy, and I don’t have…I would, but…”

Merlin looks even more hurt than Arthur had expected him to, and it’s terrible; he hates when Merlin looks like that, always feels the need to pummel whoever is responsible, feels it even more when the one responsible is him. That doesn’t change anything, though.

“Ask Gwaine, maybe,” he suggests, like he thinks that’ll be in any way a suitable alternative; Gwaine isn’t exactly Mr Commitment, and being asked to be best man at a wedding would probably have him breaking out in hives. “Or Lance, I’m sure he’d love to, and you know Gwen will be one of the bridesmaids. It makes far more sense.”

“My God, you’re an arse,” Merlin says, and for all that they spend half their time squabbling (like an old married couple, Morgana said once, which she bloody would, wouldn’t she, and now she’s going to be the one Merlin bickers with endlessly as they stagger around on Zimmer frames together) this is far, far harsher than usual. “I don’t want Lancelot, or Gwaine. I want you, and I don’t want to do this without you by my side.”

Arthur doesn’t know what answer to give that, even though he still wants to refuse, to distance himself from this thing that will mean the end of life as he knows it, the end of life as he wishes it to be. He wants to be there for Merlin, with Merlin, standing at his side, but not like this. Not like this, at the wrong side of him.

“I can’t,” he says. “The planning, the speech, the stag night…I don’t have time.”

“Forget the planning,” Merlin says, sounding equal parts devastated and desperate. “Forget the stag night and the speech and anything else that a best man usually does. They’re not important. I just want you to show up, stand next to me, and give me the rings when I ask for them. One day, that’s it.”

“I can’t.”

Merlin smiles, both triumphant and not, and the sight of it terrifies Arthur. “Fine,” Merlin says, staring him down, refusing to give Arthur quarter with his gaze as much as his words. “Then you can explain to your sister why the wedding isn’t going to happen.”

_Bastard_ , Arthur thinks, momentarily hating his best friend as much as he’s ever loved him (which, it must be said, is an awful lot). _Oh, you bastard_ , he thinks, this time directed at himself just as much as it is Merlin, because he wants to stand in their way, and this would be Merlin’s decision. This would be Merlin calling it off, without Arthur asking him to, and it wouldn’t be his fault.

But it would, really. It would be Arthur’s fault, and, again, he would be ruining Merlin and his sister’s happiness for nothing. No good would come of it.

He still can’t give in, even if resisting will ruin their lives.

Merlin puts his sandwich down, glaring at Arthur across the table. “So, what is it?” he asks, and Arthur doesn’t know if he should be relieved or not; surely if Merlin actually meant his threat to call off the wedding, he’d be storming out right about now, not sticking around to argue some more. “Would you be this much of a dick to anyone your sister was marrying, or is it just me you think isn’t good enough for her?”

“No!” Arthur says, far too quickly, far too loudly, and Merlin startles a little. “Don’t be such an idiot, Merlin, you know that’s not it.”

“Right,” Merlin mutters, more dejected than outright argumentative. “Now I’m an idiot. Thanks, Arthur. Is that why you’re so against this?”

Arthur struggles for words for a moment, feeling a little bit like Merlin is trying to make this difficult for him, like this is all just him causing Arthur trouble for no reason. It’s not fair to think that, not when Merlin is probably the most unfailingly good bloke Arthur has ever met, but he thinks it anyway.

Merlin speaks when he doesn’t, resigned and hollow. “I know there are better people out there,” he says. “She's the only woman I've ever loved, and the only person who has ever wanted me back. Believe me, Arthur; I know how lucky I am that she’ll settle for me, when there are so many better men out there.”

No, Arthur thinks, and has absolutely no idea how to say the words in his mind, the words so frequently in his mind, that Merlin is probably the best man he’s ever met. Merlin is beyond wonderful, beyond being a good man, and if Arthur had ever wondered if Merlin was once interested in him, this would be all the evidence he could need to prove he wasn't; if Arthur had been one of the people Merlin wanted, he would have had no doubt at all about Arthur being interested in return.

“There are _no_ better men.” Arthur says, with all the finality he can muster, hating that they have to talk about this, almost hating Merlin for refusing to let this drop. “She’s not settling, Merlin,” he says, and he definitely hates how much he wants Merlin to reply, _No, I am_. “She loves you.”

“And I love her.”

Even though Arthur knows that already, hearing it still hurts, will probably always hurt, but they can talk about this all day and that will never change. However much he loves Merlin, however often he’s thought that maybe there’s something there in return, some spark between them that could, if given the chance, become more, it is nothing compared to the way Merlin looks at his sister, the way she looks back.

“Fine,” he says, and it is for Merlin’s sake that he tries to keep the defeat out of his voice, though defeated he very definitely is; Merlin will marry his sister, and Arthur will be there to witness it. “You win, Merlin. Now, I need to get back to work.”

He stands before Merlin can reply, stalks out before Merlin has the chance to drop some money on the table and run after him.

He runs away, Arthur can’t deny that’s what he’s doing, but he’s already stayed as long as he can.

X

Morgana has been sitting at their kitchen table, staring at nothing, for the best part of half an hour before Merlin dares to interrupt her, his concern finally overriding his caution.

“‘Gana?” he asks, sliding into the seat across from her and placing a cup of tea on the table between them. “What’s up?”

Morgana blinks once, then a second time, her eyes finally focusing back in the room. She looks at Merlin like he’s a stranger, though, a man she’s never met who has suddenly appeared in her home, as opposed to her friend of almost two decades and her fiancé for three months. “I don’t know if we should do this,” she says; Merlin has a horrid suspicion he knows exactly what she means, and it hurts just as much as the lack of recognition on her face.

“Do what?”

“This,” she says again, gesturing to the pile of wedding brochures on the side by the microwave, the crumbs from five different cakes still on a plate at her elbow, the list of approved locations from her father. “The wedding.”

It’s Merlin’s turn to blink, because thinking he knows what she means doesn’t make it any bloody easier to actually hear her say it. “You’re leaving me?” He asks, sounding utterly pathetic even to his own ears, but at least it’s better than begging (he’s sure that’ll come later, though). “I thought…I love you.”

Morgana looks at him with the same blazing intensity she offered to the blank wall in their kitchen just minutes ago, except now it’s like he’s the only thing she can see, absolute and eternal. Like he’s the only thing she’ll ever be able to see, and in this moment where his heart is breaking more than a little bit, Merlin thinks he loves her more than ever.

“Oh, Merlin,” she says, reaching out and wrapping her hand around his. “Merlin, I love you, too, but…Is this wedding really what you want?”

“I don’t understand.”

“Well,” she says, “You’ve not really been an active part of the planning, have you? You’ve said you're fine with every single thing I’ve suggested, and you haven’t had anything to suggest for yourself.” She sighs, not smiling, not even close to it, even though in any other set of circumstances Merlin would think her next words a joke. “A girl could be forgiven for thinking you weren’t really all that interested.”

“No!” Merlin says, before she can go any further. “No, ‘Gana, you must know that’s not true. I want to marry you, it just doesn’t matter to me what the ceremony is like.” He falters, letting his words drain away, because it’s entirely possible that saying the only part of the ceremony he really cares about is that Arthur be there won’t sound the way he means it to. “I thought you’d prefer it this way,” he says instead. “I thought...most women would complain when their fiancé tries to involve himself in their wedding plans.”

“Well, you’re not marrying most women!” She snaps. “You’re marrying me.”

She glares at him, not furious (he’s seen Morgana furious, and it’s far, far more terrifying than this) but definitely not happy. Merlin doesn’t know how to defuse her, though, knows no way to calm Morgana down without making her explode entirely.

“I know,” he says, as sincerely as he can. “And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“Oh, Merlin,” she says again, and the silence that follows seems to last forever. Eventually, she seems to shake herself, and with that her intensity is gone, or at least back to a more normal level (for her, at any rate). “Since you asked my father if you could marry me, I’ve looked at fifteen different venues, tried my weight in cake samples, spent hour after hour trying to battle him into not making me wear a white dress because I look terrible in white and everyone knows I’m not a virgin so the symbolism is utterly pointless, and I can’t fucking do it anymore. I can’t have the kind of wedding he wants us to, and-”

She inhales, deep and devastating, and Merlin doesn't want to think he had any idea what he thought the next words out of her mouth were going to be, but what she actually says is one hell of a surprise. “I think we should elope.”

X

From then on, the planning is a little more straightforward and, Merlin thinks with no small amount of guilt, shared.

It’s still not quick, and it’s probably not what most people would consider eloping to be: there’s still a date, and a guest list, and a venue to choose, but it’s nothing, not when they compare it to what Uther was planning for them.

“So,” Morgana says over dinner, the day after they make their decision. “Who do we want as witnesses?”

“Well, Arthur’s my best man,” Merlin answers, then swallows and apologises when she grimaces. “And Gwen is your head bridesmaid, right?”

“Right,” Morgana agrees. “That’s that, then. When?”

Merlin thinks on this for a moment, then realises what the finality of her words means. “Hang on, _that’s that_ as in we’ll think of other people later or _that’s that_ like that’s everyone, only two guests for Merlin and Morgana?”

Morgana laughs, almost glittering, and it’s like she’s a whole different person to the woman he argued with last night; not for the first time, Merlin wonders if she’s maybe a little bit bipolar, or perhaps just plain crazy. “We agreed to elope, Merlin. That hardly lends itself to a long guest list.”

“True,” Merlin concedes, though he’s always known making a concession to Morgana isn’t necessarily healthy. It’s healthier than getting married without his mother present, though, and Merlin would quite like to live to a ripe old age; the more of Morgana’s plans he lets slide, the more of his own stipulations he’ll be able to get through (or try, at least). “But my mum will murder us both if I get married without her there.”

Morgana doesn’t laugh this time, even though she looks a little amused. “And Uther will kill the pair of us and Hunith, too, if she’s invited and he isn’t.”

“So that’s another two on the guest list, then.”

“No.”

“No?”

“You’ve known my father for years, Merlin,” Morgana says, in what is very definitely her _I’m patronising you by explaining_ tone. “You know what he’s like. If we invite him, he’ll just take over, and we’ll be right back to where we were yesterday.”

Merlin accepts her point, even if he can’t agree with the conclusion she’s drawing from it; he can’t imagine their wedding without his mother there, and if that means Uther has to be invited too, that’s just how it is. “So we don’t tell him, then.”

Morgana frowns, which makes Merlin feel a little bit less sure of his genius idea. “I don’t think I follow,” she says slowly. “Are we inviting him or not?”

“We are,” he says. “Just, you know, not to our wedding.”

“I still don’t follow,” she says, confused, and Merlin probably shouldn’t feel so good about being the one well and truly on top of the conversation, but he does; talking to either of the Pendragon twins so often leaves him flummoxed, so it’s nice to be the one who knows what’s going on.

“Let him carry on planning things,” he says, deliberately trying to sound like he’s stating the obvious, even as he knows it’s mean to do so. “Try keep him from spending too much, but then it’s not like he doesn’t bleed fifty pound notes, so it hardly matters if we can’t. Then, when it gets to not long before the date, invite him for dinner, tell him to dress smartly, and bam! Surprise wedding. We get the day we want, he still gets invited to the wedding, and everyone is happy.”

“Uther is never happy,” Morgana points out, but she’s smiling again, so he thinks this plan is maybe a go. “So, I ask again, when?”

Merlin isn’t entirely sure how one idea has changed him into the man with all the answers, but he’s willing to go with it for now. “Maybe we sort out the _where_ first, then work based on when it’s available?”

“Maybe,” Morgana agrees, then carries on eating, neither of them mentioning the fact that this is a more concrete plan than anything they managed in the previous three months they’ve been engaged. “I’m still not wearing white, though.”

Merlin grins, waggling his eyebrows in his best impression of Gwaine. “I’d never ask you to, love,” he says. “Virginity is overrated, anyway.”

X

From then on, the planning is simple, and Morgana does her best not to have second thoughts.

X

It’s half an hour into Merlin’s stag night when Arthur realises just how stupid it was to have Gwaine plan it for him, largely because that’s exactly how long it takes Merlin to realise the club they’re in wasn’t Arthur’s idea. He’s not quite sure exactly what it is that clues Merlin in – the stage? The scantily (if at all) clad women? The tequila shots the waitress in the almost transparent dress keeps bringing over to their table? – but it’s definitely something, and Merlin is not only tipsy, he’s also pissed. He doesn’t say anything, of course, but Arthur knows, and he knows he’s made a mistake, even if Merlin _said_ he didn't care about Arthur not planning the stag night.

It was easier in the short run, maybe, to get Gwaine to help out with his best man duties, because whilst Arthur is pretty sure he could have arranged an evening Merlin would enjoy a damn sight more than he’s enjoying this one, he couldn’t have planned it without a constant reminder of why he was doing it, and that, Arthur is more than sure he can do without.

So instead, when Gwaine came over to his for a beer one evening a month or two ago (his TV was broken, and there was a game he wanted to catch, apparently, but it was equally likely that Gwaine was just tired of drinking away his own money) and Arthur’s plans were still nothing more than a blank sheet of paper, he’d given up. “Look,” he said, when he was enough drinks in to think it was a good idea. “I can’t fucking do this, mate.”

“Too much for you to plan something without Merlin there to help you out, is it, princess?” Gwaine answered, his tone borderline amused.

“Sure,” Arthur agreed, because if he wasn’t telling Morgana, he wasn’t telling fucking Gwaine either. “Something like that, yeah. You want another?”

“Pope, Catholic?” was all the response that got (but then on a scale of one to ten of stupid questions, that one was pushing an eleven), and Gwaine was still frowning when Arthur returned to the living room with two opened bottles.

“Look,” he said, and the git had the bad manners to sound sympathetic, when Arthur was fairly sure that everyone who was at all aware of his tiny, little, practically insignificant crush (such a teenage girl word, but even in his brain it sounded better than the truth, which was more along the lines of _hopelessly, endlessly, always love_ )on Merlin was ignoring it entirely. “Do you want me to do it for you? Merlin never has to know, and all you’ll have to do is turn up and not look too surprised.”

“Whatever,” he answered, and Gwaine knew enough to take that as a yes.

Now, though, he seriously fucking regrets it, because with each drink Merlin downs, the glare he’s giving Arthur gets a little more present.

It’s not that Merlin’s glares are frightening, at all, not even in the slightest. It’s just that it’s Merlin, and whenever he’s mad at Arthur, things always get way more difficult. No one else has ever made Arthur want to apologise so much, has ever made him wish so hard that he was better.

The second bar is worse, the tequila replaced by sambuca and the overly-revealing dress with hot-pants and a bra in a distressing shade of pink. It’s the sort of place Arthur would never set foot in even if he wasn’t gay, and since he is, the whole thing is pretty ridiculous.

“Here,” Gwaine says, returning to the table, and Arthur was too busy hiding his face in his hands to notice him leaving but his reappearance is impossible to miss, thanks to the line of underwear-clad women following him (carrying trays above their heads and smirking, because Gwaine is incapable of being a human being sometimes).

“Jaegerbombs. Drink up, boys, and then I think there’s a surprise for our Merlin, right, Arthur?”

_No_ , Arthur thinks, then thinks it again just for good measure, as if it’s going to change anything. “I think I’ve had one too many,” he says, needing out before he has to witness his best friend/sister’s fiancé/one-true-love getting a lap dance. “I’m just going to get some air. Enjoy.”

He dodges through the crowd as best as he can on as many drinks as he’s had, ignoring the voices calling him back. He should have just said no when Gwaine offered to plan this for him, should have said no when Merlin asked him to be his best man, should have said no when Morgana as good as asked him if she could marry Merlin, because he can’t fucking do this anymore.

The bouncer (definitely the widest man Arthur’s ever seen, even if he’s far from being the tallest) looks at him oddly as he almost sprints past, but then he’s probably used to seeing the one-man battering rams trying to get inside the club rather than trying to break out. Likewise, the two kids at the front of the very long queue (might be a dive, this place that Gwaine has picked, but it’s both exclusive and popular, no denying that) who can’t possibly be old enough to get inside give him looks that definitely suggest doubt in his sanity, but Arthur’s outside, he can’t see Merlin anymore, and he can breathe again, even if he’s still too close.

It’s killing him, this whole fucking thing.

His sister and his Merlin and they’re so fucking happy. It’s killing him.

“You know,” Merlin’s voice says, cooler than cucumber and as unwavering as steel, “You could have just told me you weren't going to plan tonight. I’d’ve understood.”

“No,” Arthur answers, and he’d actually prefer dying to looking at him, to having this conversation. “You wouldn’t.”

“No,” Merlin agrees. “I wouldn’t, but I’d’ve appreciated the honesty a lot more than you getting Gwaine to do all this and then lying to me about it.”

Arthur sighs, feels something inside him break, and turns to look at Merlin; he’s already there, under Arthur’s skin, and pretending he isn’t won’t change that. “Go back inside, Merlin.”

“Not without you.”

_You’re doing everything else without me_ , thinks the worst part of Arthur, the part that a mixture of Merlin and alcohol always brings out in him. “I’ll be there in a minute,” he says, and something in his voice is enough to convince Merlin he’s not just trying to fob him off.

“Better be, you git,” Merlin answers, but he’s smiling again, and Arthur’s forgiven just like that. “I’m planning on staying at yours and vomiting on your carpet in gratitude for tonight, and that’s going to be bloody difficult when Gwaine’ll have me too drunk to remember your address if you’re not with me.”

_No_ , Arthur thinks again, because Merlin is already drunk enough to be slurring and there’s no way Arthur wants him over when he’s going to be even worse later on. He’s never managed to say no to Merlin and stick to it, though, and there’s no point in trying now.

X

So he goes back in, and does his best to smile as a blonde straddles Merlin’s thighs and waggles her enormous boobs in his face. He feels about as awkward, as uncomfortable, as Merlin looks, and has to try very hard not to grimace as the girl places Merlin’s hands on either side of her waist and grinds down, her mouth far too close to Merlin’s.

He does his best, it’s all he can do, and when the girl finally climbs off his sister’s fiancé, it feels almost like a reward that Gwaine starts chivvying them up, ready to move on to the next place, what Arthur can only hope is the last place.

Instead of heading down the street to yet another Soho club Arthur would rather avoid, Gwaine leads them to the closest bus stop, herding them all under the shelter and out of the drizzle.

“This isn’t supposed to be happening,” he mutters, glancing at his watch, then at the timetable on the side of the bus shelter. “The weather said it was supposed to be clear tonight.”

“Where are we going?” Arthur asks, as close to silent as he can get, because everyone but the pair of them and Merlin are theoretically still under the impression that he planned this.

“You’ll see,” Gwaine tells him, just as quiet, digging in his pocket to fish out an Oyster card as a bus approaches them. “I hope you will, at least. But he’ll like it.”

_He’d better_ , Arthur thinks; so far, Gwaine’s estimate of what Merlin might enjoy has been a long way from the mark.

X

By the time they’ve switched from their second bus to the third, Arthur is feeling most of the way to being sober again, cool and rational and still not happy with this, still completely clueless as to their destination.

Gwaine continues to be obstinately silent, even as the seven of them climb from the bus (Merlin shouting a thank you at the driver, even though they use the second set of doors and there's a crowd of people between him and them, because he’s never managed to accept that sometimes it’s okay not to) and set off walking, Gwaine consulting the map app on his phone as they go.

“Come on, lads,” Gwaine encourages, when the others start muttering complaints under their breaths (or not so much, in Elyan’s case; Arthur quite audibly hears him wishing they were still back in the bar). “We’re almost there.”

Merlin, on the other hand, is looking increasingly cheery, which Arthur has to conclude is a good thing, even if he isn’t entirely sure why.

“Are we going where I think we’re going?” he asks Arthur, and his grin makes the streetlights seem unnecessary. “Because if we are, I completely forgive you for letting Gwaine do the thing with the clubs.”

Arthur smiles back, hoping that a mysterious non-answer is something Merlin can live with; he’s not above taking the credit for whatever is going to happen next, if it’s going to make Merlin this happy.

X

When Merlin is practically skipping with joy, they stop, Gwaine slightly ahead of the rest of them as a woman peels away from the wall of the closest building and approaches.

“Hey there, sweetheart,” Gwaine drawls, kissing her with far more tongue than can be necessary, given the fact that they’re not alone, that they’re not even inside. “Guys, this is Eira, my date for the wedding. Eira, these are the guys: Arthur, Lance, Leon, Elyan, Percival, and our groom and space nerd, Merlin. Merls, you know where we are, yeah?”

Merlin’s grin definitely makes all other sources of light obsolete now, makes Arthur glad he had Gwaine sort the whole thing out for him, because he doesn’t know where they are or why but he knows he’d never have thought of it himself. “Are we going in?” he asks, while Arthur exchanges slightly baffled glances with the others.

“Nah, mate, just thought I’d bring you here to stare at the outside. Not a problem, is it?”

Merlin just hugs him, and grins, and hugs him again, then turns to Gwaine’s girl. “Do you work here?”

“Ever since I graduated,” she says, drawing a ridiculously large bunch of keys from her bag. “Right, you all better pick up after yourselves, and leave everything exactly as you found it. It’s my job if anyone finds out you’ve been here. Other than that, welcome to the Observatory.”

X

Arthur never would have thought of this, but looking at Merlin now, he really thinks he should have done.

Merlin’s obsession with the stars started not long after Balinor left, although back then Arthur was too busy hating him to really notice too much. For years, Morgana had their father buy Merlin increasingly powerful telescopes for his birthday, camped out in the grounds with him on the rare occasion it was warm and dry enough to sleep without a tent, and dragged Arthur along with them to any star-related thing she could find close to home, but it was only once she was gone that Arthur started listening, started working out what it was all about.

Merlin loves the light, the distance, the knowledge that they’re looking up at things long gone but still visible for them. Arthur has always thought the stars are just lights in the sky, sometimes pretty but not worth straining his eyes to look at, not worth the extra hours of study, learning constellations and distances and details, but Merlin? Merlin sees the past in the stars, and for once he doesn’t want to change it.

“It takes years for the light to reach us,” Merlin says, staring at the ceiling in the planetarium, at the images moving above them. “Centuries, sometimes even longer. It’s the closest we’re going to get to time travel.”

_I love you_ , Arthur thinks, in the softness of the dark and the silence, and whilst he’s known that for a while, it’s the first time he’s ever let himself think it so plainly.

X

Sometime around one, when everyone but Merlin seems to be getting bored of looking at space stuff, Gwaine breaks out the booze again, along with a couple of packs of cards, and sits in the best lit corner of the room (Eira is understandably reluctant to let them turn on too many lights, and Merlin doesn’t really seem to care all that much about the fact that he’s wandering around in the dark; at the very least, the quiet curses he utters each time he bumps into something sound fairly unbothered). He pulls Eira down next to him, then beckons the others into a circle and produces a  full matchbox from somewhere, dealing out one of the many forms of poker he’s familiar with (if a game involves betting, Gwaine can play it, Arthur is pretty sure, and somehow he’s incredibly good at getting the rest of them involved as well).

Merlin ambles over to them from time to time, taking a swig straight from the bottle and laughing at Arthur’s ever dwindling pile of matchsticks (he’s already on his third loan from the ‘bank’, and Merlin still isn’t showing any sign of getting bored). “Thank you,” he says, each time slightly more slurred, but Arthur really doesn’t have the heart to cut him off when he looks so pleased to be there.

Two o’clock passes, and Arthur has a brief period of victory around half past, enough so that when Merlin flops down next to him, he actually looks surprised. “Is he cheating?” he asks the group at large, and Eira giggles; she matched Gwaine drink for drink for the first half hour, and it’s still showing even though she’s slowed down a lot by now.

“Not that we’ve seen,” Leon answers, shuffling sideways and back a little bit so that Merlin’s feet aren’t in his lap anymore. “We aren’t ruling it out, though.”

Merlin grins, silly with glee and whatever it is in Gwaine’s bottles, and they deal him in to the next hand of cards.

Over the course of the evening (well, morning, if Arthur’s being particular) and their game, the rain has moved from a light mist to a steady pounding on the roof, but by the time Merlin joins them it’s very definitely a downpour, thundering violently on the roof above them, and Gwaine is not pleased.

“This isn’t supposed to be happening,” he says again, and since he’s just put down a royal flush and scraped together a mountain of matchsticks, Arthur figures he’s not talking about the game. “Sorry, Merls.”

“Yeah,” Merlin agrees. “Because you control the weather, don’t you?”

“It’s been said,” Gwaine says, and it’s a testament to how drunk they are that most of them laugh with him. “Really, though, I’m sorry.”

“Shut up and deal, moron,” Merlin says, slumping against Arthur’s side, his head hanging limply on his shoulder. “Maybe it’ll clear up, anyway.”

“Aye, maybe.”

X

It doesn’t, though, and by the time four a.m. rolls around and the thunder starts, Merlin’s cheer has been replaced by a lazy kind of not-quite-maudlin. The others have mellowed a little, too, the ribaldry of earlier softening to an almost dozy happiness, and Arthur thinks they’re all just waiting for someone else to call it a night.

“Come on,” Merlin says eventually, peeling himself away from Arthur’s side with a suddenness that leaves him feeling cold, even though Eira had flicked a switch she said was the heating when they came in. “The weather has made up its mind. We’re not going to see anything tonight, might as well head home.”

“Oh, thank God,” Elyan mutters, enough enthusiasm in his voice that Arthur feels obliged to kick him across their make-shift card table; he may have included himself on the list of people who want to clear out, but this is Merlin’s night and he isn’t going to let anyone cock that up. “What were we hanging around for, anyway?” he continues, glaring at Arthur, possibly for the kick or possibly just because he still thinks this is Arthur’s plan.

“Mercury, Venus and Jupiter,” Merlin answers, like that explains everything. “They’re in conjunction, should all be visible at the same time tonight. It’s rare, and definitely worth seeing, but apparently Gwaine forgot to sort out the weather for us, so all we’re seeing is clouds.”

Gwaine takes the jibe with his usual good nature, scrambling up with a grin. “Come on, lads, I’ll call a cab and then we can finish off the bottle before it gets here.”

X

Gwaine being Gwaine, he drinks the lion’s share of what’s left himself, although, this being a special occasion, he does make an effort to get Merlin to drink a fair bit too; by the time the taxi arrives, Merlin is clinging to Arthur again, pliant in his arms, and Arthur decides it’s necessary to bundle him in the back of the seven-seater with the others while he sits up front with the driver, making awkward conversation.

It’s for the best, though, because every time he breathes next to Merlin he’s welcoming temptation. Every time he breathes next to Merlin, it makes it harder to step away again.

The taxi disgorges people one or two at a time, until it’s only him and Merlin and the handful of tenners Gwaine left him with to pay the driver, and Arthur has no idea what he wants. The part of his brain that’s still sober, that still thinks like a decent human being...that is telling him to give the driver Merlin and Morgana’s address and leave him there, with his fiancée, with Arthur’s sister. The rest of him just wants Merlin, beside him always, and after next week that won’t be an option anymore.

After next week, he won’t even be able to pretend that Merlin is his anymore.

“Where to, lads?” the driver asks.

Arthur gives him his own address; he already hates himself for wanting everything Morgana has, and a few more hours of having Merlin to himself isn’t going to make that any worse.

X

Merlin giggles and clings as they walk from the road to Arthur’s door, continues to cling through his house, all the way to the spare room, where Arthur lets him go, dropping him on the bed and kneeling to pick at the knots in his shoelaces; Merlin has always struggled with tying a bow, battling his shoes off every day, and being drunk enough that Arthur isn’t entirely sure he knows where he is right now won’t help that.

It’s not a simple task, particularly not when Arthur’s brain seems determined to think of all the things he never normally lets himself think of. How soft Merlin’s hands are as they thread through his hair, how close up, Arthur can see lines of muscle in Merlin’s thighs that aren’t normally visible, even through his jeans, how easy it would be to lean forwards and press his face to Merlin’s crotch.

“Water,” he says, standing up quickly before he can act on the impulse. “You need water, Merlin, or your head’s going to be killing you tomorrow.”

By the time Arthur returns with a full pint glass of water (straight from the tap, complete with ice cubes, because Merlin refuses to accept it any other way when he’s drunk), Merlin has thrown his shoes to one side and hauled his legs up on to the bed, the whole long length of them sprawling before him, and when he beckons Arthur to sit down next to him, Arthur is a little too hypnotised to refuse. Merlin’s hand closes around his, seemingly heedless of the glass Arthur is holding, and Arthur tingles everywhere they touch, from the tips of Merlin’s fingers to where their thighs lie pressed together on the slightly too narrow bed.

“Before Morgana,” Merlin says, with the seriousness that belongs only to the very drunk or the most earnest of break ups, and Arthur feels a little bit like this is both. “Before your sister, I thought I was gay.”

Arthur really doesn’t know what to say to that, but Merlin’s complete lack of silence suggests he doesn’t actually need to say anything at all.

“I mean,” he continues, babblingly drunk, close enough that Arthur can feel warmth radiating from his skin, “I just...Most of the boys in our class were all about girls, you know, and I- I just wasn’t. Once Morgana left, when you stopped trying to be horrible to me, I don’t think I saw anything other than you.”

“Drink your water,” Arthur tells him, because he’s not drunk enough to think that putting his hands over his ears and scrunching his eyes shut as he chants _not listening, I’m not listening_ is a good idea. “You’ll regret it tomorrow if you don’t.”

Merlin obeys, his eyes wide and guileless, deeper than the ocean as he stares up at Arthur. Trusting, too, and every second Arthur’s in his company he’s betraying that trust, taking advantage.

“You were my world,” he says when he’s done, putting the empty glass on the bedside table. “You kind of still are, Arthur, at least as much as she is, and...Arthur. Just- Arthur.”

_I can’t listen to this_ , Arthur thinks, but the words that spill from his lips aren’t that. “You’re marrying my sister,” he says, and it sounds bitter and awful and just a little mournful.

“I am,” Merlin agrees, and Arthur wonders if he realises just how fucked up this situation is, or if he’s drunk enough that all there is is Arthur and the fog. He wonders how much alcohol it would take to keep Merlin here like this, here with Arthur and Arthur alone, caught together in a bubble of truths that seems eternal from the inside. “But even knowing that, I can’t help but wonder what it would have been like.

“My wedding is a week away,” he says, “And all I can think is that I want to kiss you while I still have the chance.”

X

_It’s okay to be selfish sometimes_ , Morgana told him, once, so long ago, maybe before she left or maybe not so long after she got back. She was yelling at the time, furious at him for one reason or another, so mad at him for refusing to admit whatever secret she wanted him to own up to then, is probably still waiting for him to own up to. _You’re allowed to have the things you want, Arthur_ , she shrieked, right in his face, and if there’s ever been a time he’s wanted to follow through on that advice, it’s now, even if he knows damn well that kissing her fiancé is _not_ what she meant.

“Oh, God,” Merlin says when his words finally seem to catch up with him, his eyes gapingly wide, and Arthur is still so fucking speechless. “Pretend I never said that, please, Arthur. Please.”

_It’s okay to be selfish sometimes_ , Morgana told him, and he knows she wouldn’t want him to be selfish now, but it’s late and they’ve both had several too many and Merlin won’t remember saying any of this tomorrow, Arthur knows how it is with him. Merlin won’t remember this in the morning, Merlin is marrying his sister a week tomorrow, Merlin is as good as offering Arthur everything he’s ever wanted, only if for the night, and how the fuck is Arthur supposed to turn that down?

“Shut up, Merlin,” he says. “In the name of all that is good, shut up.”

“But-” Merlin starts, and Arthur cuts him off before he can get started, cuts him off with a single, quick press of lips. That’s all he really ever intended to do, just kiss Merlin once, soft and sweet and gentle, just once and only once, before going to his own bedroom and closing the door, not to keep Merlin out but to keep himself in.

Once isn’t enough, though, was never going to be enough, because when Arthur pulls back Merlin chases him, is halfway to sitting up before Arthur manages to break free of him.

Arthur will never be free of him.

_I’m sorry_ , he thinks, but whether it’s to Merlin or Morgana or even himself, maybe, he’s really not sure. _I’m so sorry for this_ , he thinks, and for a second his guilt wins.

Then Merlin licks his lips, like he can still taste Arthur there, like he wants to keep tasting him there forever, and the second is over.

Arthur kisses him again, making up for the softness of the first one with pressure now, flicking his tongue over Merlin’s lips until Merlin opens for him, and then it feels a little like he’s trying to climb inside, like if he kisses Merlin hard enough he’ll never have to-

“Stop,” Merlin says, and even if it’s muffled by Arthur’s mouth on his it’s clear what it is; Arthur doesn’t know how he’s misread everything, all of the signs, all the things Merlin just said to him, but it seems pretty clear that he has, and he has no choice but to listen.

He pulls back, realising as he does so that he’s climbed on top of Merlin, knees either side of his thighs, his left hand gripping the headboard beside Merlin’s head, his right tangled in Merlin’s hair. “I’m sorry,” he says, still retreating, and this is why this was a bad idea. Merlin wants his sister, his twin, his other half. Merlin will never want him, not really. “God, Merlin, I’m so sorry.”

“Shut up,” Merlin answers, like they’re taking it in turns, and Arthur tries to brace himself for the slew of curses that will follow, for Merlin spitting in his face and telling him to leave and never come back. _I never want to see you again_ , Merlin will say, and even if this all will be a fuzzy blur tomorrow, something that Merlin will chalk up to his imagination if he remembers it at all, Arthur thinks hearing those words will break him anyway.

“Shut up,” he says again, but instead of following it up with the words Arthur is both anticipating and dreading, he just crosses his arms over his stomach and peels the long sleeved t-shirt he’s worn all evening up over his head. “Don’t talk, Arthur. Just kiss me.”

X

_It's okay to be selfish_ , Arthur thinks, and he is. He is selfish, horribly, unforgivably selfish, and when Merlin half invites and half orders him to kiss him again, refusing is beyond impossible; Arthur kisses him, feels Merlin's lips crease into a smile beneath his own, feels Merlin welcome him with everything he is.

"Arthur," Merlin says, the first time they pause for breath, and Arthur doesn't know if it always sounds like that when Merlin say his name. It can't, logically, because Arthur would have noticed that hitch, that gasp, that desperate, wild hunger. He'd've noticed, responded, stolen the air from Merlin's lungs the same way he has to steal it now; he would have noticed, and yet, somehow, it's exactly the same, even though it's not, and that just proves that sense and logic and even thought have no place here. Not here.

"Arthur," Merlin says again, just his name, and then, "Arthur, please."

They've barely started anything and already Merlin sounds broken, shattered and shredded and just waiting for Arthur to put him back together again, and who is Arthur to refuse?

_I love you_ , he thinks again, even thinks of actually saying it, but that is one truth too many, one truth that will make the world unbearable tomorrow. Instead, he resists when Merlin tries to drag him down on top of him again, resists as Merlin pouts at him, flushed and frowning like he can't work out why they aren't still kissing, and Arthur has to look away before he wonders the same thing, before he kisses Merlin again, before he comes in his pants like the inexperienced teenager he is such a long way from being.

"Please," Merlin says, begs, unashamed and so trusting it actually hurts.

"Hush," Arthur tells him, rising up onto his knees and shuffling backwards down the bed until he's almost at risk of falling off the bottom of it before shrugging off his own shirt, throwing it to the floor next to Merlin's. "Hush," he says, leaning back down and pressing a tiny, gentle kiss to the most ticklish place on Merlin's stomach, enjoying the way Merlin squirms under him, enjoying more the way he freezes when Arthur places a palm against him, rubbing once, twice, before unfastening his jeans and tugging them down his thighs.

"Hush," he says a third time, though Merlin is now so silent Arthur thinks he could hear a pin drop, were anyone around to drop one. "Merlin," he says, and it's the last word he manages for quite a while.

X

Afterwards, Arthur is wordless and breathless, unable to break eye contact with the man lying beside him, his Merlin, blinking sleepily at him, sated and satisfied and something utterly untouchable. His Merlin, Merlin who will never again be his.

“Stay here,” Arthur says, sliding from the bed and zipping up the jeans he never made it as far as removing, just shoved down his thighs far enough to get a hand inside, too desperate to wait and Merlin too out of it to do much more than brush clumsy hands against his skin, murmuring encouragements and _come on, Arthur, come._

"It's okay," Arthur says, even though he's not stupid enough to believe it. He's retreating as he speaks, too, backing towards the door, unable to be in the same space as Merlin and his guilt anymore. “It's...I’ll get a cloth, just- stay.”

Merlin smiles, full of the trust that Arthur has so completely betrayed, and Arthur flees.

X

He locks the bathroom door behind him, something he’s never done before with only Merlin in the house, but he has to, and even then it isn’t enough.

He turns the shower up as hot as it will go before climbing in, shutting another door between him and Merlin. It burns, but it’s nothing less than he deserves.

By the time he returns to the spare room, as clean as he’s ever going to get, Merlin is asleep, and on a scale of one to ten, Arthur thinks, wiping Merlin as clean as he can and tugging his pants up over his unresponsive limbs isn’t really any worse than anything else he’s done tonight.

He’s hell-bound anyway; if letting Merlin forget will spare him regretting what they’ve done, Arthur will spare him.

X

Merlin wakes up slowly, but the pain in his head is enough to make him think that waking up at all is a mistake. He doesn’t remember how much he drank last night (though the headache is definitely tequila-based, he’s sure of that much), but he knows it’s definitely a long time since he has as much as that.

_Stupid Gwaine_ , he thinks, feeling whimpery and pathetic, because the git spent the whole night helping Merlin drown himself in a whole variety of booze, probably drank way more than Merlin did, but chances are he’ll be feeling fine and dandy this morning. Merlin just wants to go back to sleep, even if it does mean subjecting himself to Technicolor crazy-person dreams again.

Still, staying huddled under his blankets crying about his hurting head isn’t going to solve anything; he wriggles his way from the bed, feeling a little like a fish on dry land, flopping and gasping and dying slowly and painfully, but then it kind of serves him right for not saying no to any of the drinks shoved in his hand last night.

He shoves his legs into his jeans, then sniffs at his t-shirt just the once before deciding he’s not going to wear it again (it stinks of alcohol, with a subtle undertone of sweat and perfume, probably from the girl whose breasts he could have done with being less acquainted with yesterday, and Merlin really doesn’t want to deal with anything more complicated that the smell of washing powder). Arthur won’t mind him stealing a shirt, he figures, leaving the guest room and tapping on Arthur’s door, trying to act as though he didn’t spend half of last night imagining impossible confessions and kisses between the two of them.

It’s not the first time he’s had overly vivid dreams of him and Arthur, but then it’s not like he’s never dreamed of anyone else, either. It doesn’t mean anything, he tells himself, waiting for Arthur to answer, even if it was a little more vivid than usual, even if it left enough of an impression that his skin is still tingling.

There’s no sound from Arthur’s room, not even the irritable groans Arthur makes when he’s waking up, and after a moment Merlin pushes open the door to find an empty room, no sign of Arthur at all, and no one to comment as Merlin digs around to find a shirt that won’t be overwhelmingly huge on him.

Fully dressed (barring socks, but if the sight of his bare feet offends Arthur, that’s just tough), Merlin goes downstairs to check the rest of the house, concern rising in him as he finds more and more rooms empty.

There’s a note in the kitchen, though, in Arthur’s ugly, hurried scrawl, telling Merlin that he had to rush out to work but to make himself at home.

“Already there,” Merlin says, thinking of his borrowed shirt and wondering how on earth Arthur managed to muster up the energy to go in to work, even if it’s an emergency; he’s fairly sure Arthur didn’t drink as much as him, but he still had a lot.

Still, he thinks, grabbing a couple of eggs from the fridge and breaking them into a pan. Just because Arthur isn’t here, it doesn’t mean he can’t have breakfast.

X

Morgana is curled up on the sofa when he gets in, nursing a mug of coffee so huge it’s practically a bowl, mostly buried under a blanket, all the curtains closed and the lights off.

“You too, huh?” Merlin asks, a little amazed she made it from their bed to the sofa; if he’d woken up in his own bed this morning, he’d probably still be there.

“Gwen is a demon,” she answers, shuffling her legs up a little and pulling back the blanket to let him sit under it next to her. “You wouldn’t know it to look at her, but she is a monster. I think we should kill her.”

“You’re scary,” Merlin says, helping himself to a gulp of her coffee. “Can we add the rest of our friends to the list as well?”

She laughs, then winces at the noise, poking her toes into his thighs until he lifts them a little to let her burrow her feet underneath. “That bad?”

“Tequila,” he answers, like that explains it all, and, again, she laughs. “Sambuca, too, I think,” which adds a disgusted face to her laughter. “And then there was the lap-dancer,” he adds, hoping that’ll amuse her further.

It doesn’t, though; Morgana starts at that, looking deeply surprised. “Arthur got you a lap-dancer?” She asks, sounding almost upset by the idea, and not just in the _my fiancé had a strange woman wiggling her tits in his face last night_ way.

“Gwaine did. Arthur...” he falters a little, not sure how to explain it, not even sure why Arthur did it. “I guess Arthur wasn’t lying when he said he was really busy, because he had Gwaine organise it all in his place.”

Morgana pouts, but something about her expression suggests that she’s worked out a whole lot more than Merlin has. He doesn’t ask, though, because experience tells him that Morgana never says more than she wants to, and what she wants to, she says.

Sure enough, instead of explaining anything, she just pouts more, tilting her head to one side and putting her coffee on the end table at her side of the sofa. “Was she pretty?” she asks.

Merlin grins, knowing exactly what this is, even if he’s clueless about the rest of it. “Is there any other kind?”

“Prettier than me?”

“Only a little,” he says. “Still, a little is enough. We’re running away together, I only came back to get my stuff.”

“Trollop,” she says, but she’s smiling as she leans in, his beautiful bride-to-be, and if Merlin feels guilty for his subconscious’s infidelity when she kisses him, it’s only for a minute.

It was only a dream, that is all they will ever be, and dreams won’t change how he feels.

X

Morgana loves her father, mostly because he’s her father and she’s obliged to, but also because hidden under the bluster and the arrogance that, unfortunately, both she and Arthur inherited, there is a good man.

She loves her father, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t enjoy the expression on his face when she, Merlin, and Gwen show up on his doorstep (or in the entrance hall, anyway, since Uther isn’t prone to opening his own front door), each carrying an impressive amount of luggage.

“Hi, Dad,” she says, revelling in the way his eyes boggle. “Merlin and I are getting married tomorrow, so we’re staying here tonight. Hope that’s not a problem.”

Beside her, carrying the largest garment bag Morgana has ever seen, Merlin poorly smothers a laugh, and the only reason Gwen is silent is because she’s far too polite.

“Come in,” Uther says eventually, ever the gracious host, even though he still looks astonished and also a little furious (but then she knew he would be; that only adds to the fun of it). “Take your bags upstairs. Morgana, put Guinevere in the blue room. Mr Emrys, you will sleep in your usual room. I’ll see if Mary can’t find something for you all to eat.”

X

Arthur is in the midst of allowing himself one more evening of wallowing in the memory of being with Merlin – of being able to kiss him, hold him, treat him like someone beloved by him rather than by his sister – when his mobile rings.

He’s not had enough beer to want to answer it (or, for example, to think that just because he’s getting his one and only chance to sleep with Merlin it’s actually a good idea to do it), but that also means his vision isn’t blurry enough for him not to read his father’s name on the display; when Uther calls, people answer, and Arthur has never been any different in that regard.

_Arthur isn’t here right now_ he thinks, hitting the button to accept the call, but instead settles for the blandest, “Father,” he can manage.

“Did you know about this?” Uther demands in place of a greeting, and perhaps it’s the half dozen empties on the coffee table before him but Arthur cannot help but be sarcastic in response.

“Yeah,” he says, “Sure, Father. I know everything, obviously.”

“Arthur,” Uther says, and if it’s possible for a word to be halfway between a sigh and a snap, that one is. “Your sister and her fiancé have just appeared at the house and informed me that their wedding is tomorrow.”

“Ah,” Arthur says, hollow and unsurprised, sounding too much like the heartache he’s feeling for him to be able to deny foreknowledge, and if he hadn’t been expending all of his energy on not thinking about Merlin’s upcoming nuptials, it might have occurred to him to try persuade Morgana to give their father slightly more than a single day’s notice. “Sorry,” he adds, because he’s not so lost in his own abject misery that he doesn’t wish he’d done something to avert his father’s almost heart attack.

His father is silent for so long that Arthur wonders if he’s hung up or passed out or, somehow, been abducted by aliens. There’s no such thing, of course, and even if there were, Arthur imagines they probably wouldn’t pick his father as an abduction candidate, but then a little over a week ago Arthur thought he’d never so much as kiss Merlin, so he’s not particularly discounting the impossible right now.

He’s contemplating ending the call and ringing back, or maybe phoning Morgana so that he can get her to check on him (however much he doesn’t want to see or speak to or even really be related to her anymore, he doesn’t really think that’s an option), when his father finally finds words.

“Thank you, Arthur,” Uther says softly, with a distressing level of compassion to it. “I shall see you tomorrow.”

“Yes,” Arthur agrees; as little as he wants to be there, he has already agreed to it. Merlin is counting on him being there, Morgana may be as well, and Arthur cannot let them down, however much it hurts him. “See you at the church.”

X

Morgana wakes up gasping in the face of the dread that fills her, acutely aware of both what today is and just how wrong it is for her to be feeling like this. It isn’t cold feet, because that doesn’t even come close to describing how she feels. She doesn’t feel like marrying Merlin today is going to be a mistake, because she knows full well how awful a thing it is she is doing, knows that part of herself already regrets it.

It’s not really a mistake, not when she’s doing it consciously, deliberately, but that probably only pushes it even further away from being the right thing.

She does love Merlin, though, even if that’s the only defence she can provide for herself.

Still, breakfast waits for no woman, and she’d quite like a decent meal before confronting the conflicting emotions prompted by her wedding; Morgana pushes back the quilt with decidedly less enthusiasm than she imagines most brides do, pulls her dressing gown on over her pyjamas and scrapes her hair back into a bun before going downstairs.

Merlin is already in the kitchen when she gets there, laughing with Gwen as she makes pancakes; Mary, Uther’s housekeeper/chef/anything else Uther needs her for (a woman of many hats, she is) has Saturdays off, and Gwen is incapable of letting anyone be hungry in her presence.

“‘Gana!” he exclaims, leaping to his feet and pretty much skipping over to her, giddy to such a degree that Morgana feels a little concerned. “It’s today,” he announces, dragging her into a hug, then some kind of wonky, ridiculous waltz that has Gwen cracking up.

“I’m so glad you said yes,” he whispers into her ear, then spins her with surprising grace, again and again, until Morgana is laughing as hard as he and Gwen are, dizzy and delighted and loud enough that she doesn’t hear her father approaching until he’s in the room with them, pyjama-clad and glaring.

“I do not care if today is your wedding day,” he says, grim and probably not what most people can describe as fatherly, but for Morgana that tone is pretty much the most common feature of her childhood. “It is eight in the morning. Have some respect.”

“Sorry, sir,” Merlin says, and Morgana fights off another round of laughter. “We didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Stop sucking up,” Morgana tells him, nudging him in the direction of the table. “Gwen, how’s breakfast looking?”

“The pancakes are almost ready,” Gwen says. “Would you like the first one, Mr Pendragon?”

Morgana expects more anger, or at least a brusque refusal, which is why it’s such a surprise when Uther smiles, joining her and her fiancé at the table.

X

Arthur isn’t ready, but then he’s fairly sure he never will be.

Today is the day everything changes, more irreversibly than anything ever has before, and he isn’t ready.

He has a speech to give, telling all of his sister’s family and friends – all of _Merlin’s_ family and friends – how happy he is for them, and even if the speech is written, he’s not ready to give it.

He’s not even ready to leave this toilet cubicle, the one he’s spent the last half hour locked away in, alternately scribbling furiously and chewing the blue Bic he’s used to write his speech, which makes it even more inconvenient that Gwaine is standing outside trying to work up the courage to tap on the door.

“I know you’re there,” he says eventually, not sure whether he’s grateful that Gwaine is checking up on him or not.

“I know,” Gwaine answers, just as quiet as Arthur is, the cubicle door shaking as he leans against it. “Way I figure it, either you’re trying to enter the Guinness book of world records for the biggest shit ever, or you’re hiding, and either way I don’t know if that’s something I want to interrupt. But if you’re Merls’s best man, I’m guessing that means that I’m yours for the day, so I’ve got to ask. You alright, Pendragon?”

Arthur laughs, even though it’s really not funny, then decides he might as well answer anyway, just for good measure. “About as far from it as I can be, actually.”

“Figured as much, yeah,” Gwaine says, sighing in a way Arthur would usually just find exaggerated and ridiculous but today actually has a ring of compassion to it. “You wanna swap?”

_Yes_ , Arthur thinks, even if he doesn’t have a clue what he’s talking about. Then again, miserable as he is, it’s Gwaine, so it’s probably better to have a little more information before agreeing. “I don’t follow.”

“Simple,” Gwaine says. “You give me the rings and I’ll be best man; you can stand at the bottom of the steps opposite Freya, the lowly third groomsman.”

For a moment, Arthur considers it, and it feels like one of the longest moments of his life.

X

“There,” Morgana says, applying a final swipe of lipstick as Gwen stabs the last pin into her hair. “How do I look?”

“I hate you,” Gwen answers, which Morgana figures can probably be taken as a compliment.

“I hate you, too, Gwen,” she says, then laughs. “You look gorgeous,” she adds, and Gwen does, resplendent in burgundy, the same shade as the embroidery on Morgana’s own dress, the pins holding her hair in place, the decorations on her shoes, everything but the royal blue garter on her right thigh.

Old, Merlin’s mother’s ring; new, pretty much everything she’s wearing; blue, the garter; and borrowed…

Well, she’s not ready to think of that just yet.

X

Arthur is decidedly late – and still feeling an eternity or more from being ready – when he walks into the little room at the back of the church and finds Merlin trying to strangle himself with his bow-tie.

“You know,” he says, while Merlin looks at him beseechingly. “If you didn’t want to marry her, you could just have said so. Suicide isn’t the answer, Merlin.”

“Git,” Merlin answers, thankfully too busy trying to extract himself from the mess he’s in to notice how far from joking Arthur’s voice is. He struggles a little longer, until Arthur is beginning to think strangulation is a genuine risk. “Help,” he says eventually, his right hand still at his neck, and it’s then that Arthur realises that whatever knot he’s tied, he’s also managed to tie himself into it.

“Idiot,” he says, with all the same fondness it usually has, standing almost toe to toe with Merlin and trying to pretend his hands aren’t shaking. He hasn’t seen him since that night, hasn’t spoken to him, has barely even replied to his text messages, and he still isn’t ready for it, ready for Merlin’s breath warm on his skin, Merlin’s eyes staring into his from only centimetres away, Merlin’s mouth close enough to kiss.

And Merlin looks at him like nothing ever happened, like everything is normal, and Arthur almost wishes he was right, or maybe just that Merlin’s ignorance could be his as well.

“There,” he says, smoothing down the tie and stepping back. “You’re done.”

“Thank you,” Merlin says, and Arthur has all the time in the world to watch his hand move but it’s still a surprise when it reaches his face, his fingers cradling Arthur’s jaw, thumb resting at the corner of his mouth, and Arthur doesn’t know how to react. For a moment, the images in his head are perfect, heaven-sent, and he lets himself believe them.

Merlin’s hand is on his face, and any second now he’ll move, or Arthur will, and all will be right in the world. _I’m calling it off_ , Merlin will say, and Arthur will breathe a kiss on Merlin’s thumb, or Merlin will go all out and pull him into a proper kiss, messy and desperate and honest. _I remember_ , Merlin will say. _I know where I’m meant to be, now_ , he’ll say, and Arthur will allow the sun to rise again.

“Arthur,” Merlin says, close and perfect and the only thing Arthur will ever really want. “You have blue on your face.”

X

“Are you ready?” Gwen asks, fidgeting with the bow on the back of Morgana’s dress. “Your father’s here.”

“I’m ready,” Morgana answers, and she is.

X

“We ready, lads?” Gwaine asks, as the music starts up and the doors at the bottom of the church open.

“Ready,” Lancelot and Merlin answer simultaneously, and Arthur knows why Merlin’s voice has a grin in it but Lancelot he’s not so sure about.

“Ready,” Arthur echoes, wondering how close to pathological he is right now.

X

“Should anyone here present know of any reason that this couple should not be joined in holy matrimony,” the vicar says, and for the first time since Morgana entered the church, Arthur looks up and meets his sister’s eyes over Merlin’s shoulder, not quite able to believe she’s actually doing this to him. “Speak now, or forever hold your peace.”

_Please_ , Morgana’s eyes say, although Arthur has no idea if it's _please, say something_ or _please, don't_ ; by the time Arthur has decided it doesn't matter, he wants to object either way, things have already moved on.

X

He should be happy, Arthur knows. He should be happy for them, his sister and his best friend of seventeen years, as they embrace, as they kiss like they’re never coming up for air, as their friends and family cheer and the bells ring triumphant.

If he was a better person, he’d be thrilled, ecstatic, over-the-moon happy, but he’s not.

There was never really any chance for him and Merlin, God does he know that, but that doesn’t mean his heart isn’t breaking.

X

Arthur’s speech:

_I’ve known Merlin for a long time, and Morgana for even longer, which is why I knew I couldn’t refuse when they told me to show up here today (pause for laughter). I tried, of course, because anything involving my best friend and my twin sister – we’re identical, don’t you know, or so she wanted to convince me when we were kids – was always going to be chaotic._

_We weren’t always friends, ~~mostly because my sister is a psychotic bitch who tried to bully me into cross-dressing~~ , but then it’s not easy to be friends with the lunatic who grew up trying to get you to wear her dresses, or the lunatic who stood by and laughed as she did it. I’ve fought with both of them a lot, and, I’m a little embarrassed to say, not always with words, but I don’t know that I’ve ever seen the two of them argue with each other. Since my sister is probably one of the most unreasonable people to walk this earth, that’s really saying something._

_Of course, endlessly praising my sister isn’t what this speech is for, and I’m trying to take my best man responsibilities seriously – though, really, if you wanted the man with all the jokes and the stripper connections, you should have listened to me when I told you to pick Gwaine, Merlin – so let’s talk a bit more about the groom._

_The first thing I thought when I saw Merlin was that his dad was probably an elephant – no offence, Hunith (smile winningly, Arthur, you can manage that much) – and, actually, that was the first thing I said to him, too. Imagine my surprise when the scrawny stick-insect new-kid punched me in the face, then cried so much that not only did my own sister abandon me to comfort him, but I was also grounded for the next six weeks, even if I was the victim in all of it._

_For a good few years, that moment was probably the highlight of our ~~relationship~~ ~~acquaintance~~ ~~time spent knowing each other~~ ~~for God’s sake, Arthur, you can say relationship without anyone working out what happened~~ relationship. I didn’t like Merlin, Merlin didn’t like me, and if Morgana hadn’t ~~slept with anyone who looked at her~~ ~~had one indiscretion too many and been packed off~~ gone away for school, that would probably never have changed, and you’d be listening to ~~some other miserable git~~ someone else right now._

_The thing about Merlin is, you can ignore him or yell at him or just generally be an obnoxious prick to him, but he won’t quit. I did all of this, and he’d still show up every evening after school wanting to play video games or borrow a book or a film, and God forbid I ever told him no. He stuck around, no matter how much I tried to get rid of him, and apparently his absolute conviction that we were friends was contagious, because my father stopped trying to get rid of him as well, at which point the only thing I could do was give in._

_And now we’re grown up – or so says the law, anyway, although you wouldn’t know it if you’d seen him when we walked past a playground a fortnight ago – and he’s married to my sister._

_He’s still an annoying git sometimes, and his ears are still ridiculous – seriously, Hunith, where did they come from? – but I am entirely serious when I say that he is probably the best man I know. I don’t know what heinous deed he did in a past life to end up shackled to you for the rest of his life, Morgana, but he’s happy, and THAT’S GOOD ENOUGH FOR ME._

_So, I’d like you all to join me in raising a glass to the bride and groom, Merlin and Morgana. ~~May your time together be both long and happy.~~_

X

“Come on,” Merlin calls, rapping on the door of Morgana’s favourite bathroom in the Pendragon home (that the place has multiple bathrooms is bad enough, but that there’s enough for his wife – his _wife_ – to have a favourite is an eternal source of wonder to Merlin). “Taxi’s waiting. Hurry up, or we’ll miss our flight.”

The door unlocks and Morgana steps out, her hair still hanging in wet curls down her back, just as stunning in jeans and a t-shirt and barely any makeup at all as she was yesterday in her dress and gems and dangerously high heels. “I’m ready,” she says, holding out a hand for him to take and returning his smile. “Let’s go, husband.”

X

_Just this_ , Arthur tells himself, standing in the driveway of his once-home, waiting to wave Morgana and Merlin off on their honeymoon. He’s not the only one there – Morgana knows how to throw a party, so it’s hardly a surprise that her wedding reception carried on so long into the night that the vast majority of guests are still here the following morning – but he’s probably the only one struggling to get into the party spirit.

It’s just this, though, and then he’s done. No more Merlin, no more Morgana, no more of the _don’t they look happy together, you must be so pleased for them, Arthur_ he’s been hearing for the last twenty four hours. No more of any of it, until he’s over this, until he can see Merlin without being back to that night a week ago, without remembering what he tastes like and feels like and the way he looks when he comes undone in Arthur's mouth, until he can look at his sister without his guilt killing him.

_Just this_ , he thinks, _this and no more_.

The hand landing on his shoulder makes him jump, and Arthur figures it’s Gwaine or Lancelot or someone, trying to be supportive. He doesn’t turn, because seeing them won’t help, will probably only hurt, and the sight of Merlin and Morgana walking out of the house hand-in-hand already hurts enough.

The pair of them climb into the car, laughing and flinging hugs around like they’re going away forever, not just for a couple of weeks, and Arthur wonders if anyone has ever hated their sister as much as he hates his right now.

Even so, he’s unable to stop watching as their taxi drives off, unable to turn his back and go inside, even as everyone else trickles away, leaving him almost alone on the steps.

“You made me proud today, son,” Uther says, and the hand tightens on his shoulder, the closest thing to a hug his father is capable of. “I have a bottle of ‘76 Glenfiddich in the library, Arthur. I strongly suggest we open it.”

X

_They must be at the airport by now_ , Arthur thinks, far drunker than he was a week and two days ago and never mind that it’s barely lunchtime. He’s an idiot and an arsehole and he might as well be drunk for all that it matters right now.

He made a mistake, or made a hundred, more like, and there’s no taking any of them back.

He should have said something yesterday, during the ceremony, or before it, to Merlin. A week ago, when he left Merlin to wake up alone in his house, a week and a day ago when Merlin was telling him _you were my world_ and _I don’t think I saw anything other than you_ and _don’t talk, Arthur. Just kiss me_. Months ago, when Merlin asked him to be best man, or just before that, when Morgana told him Merlin was going to propose, told Arthur to tell her not to. All those years in the past, when he first walked in on them kissing and it felt like a rug had been pulled out from under his feet, like something had changed forever without any hope of it being put back, put right.

He should have said something, and maybe he wouldn’t feel so awful right now.

“Father,” he says, and Uther looks up, turning his gaze from the newspaper spread across his lap and the tumbler of whisky that’s emptying a hell of a lot slower than Arthur’s have been.

“Arthur,” Uther replies, and under the pressure of being the focus of Uther’s gaze, Arthur almost tells him it’s nothing, even though it isn’t.

“Father,” he says again, and then, as Uther looks increasingly concerned, “I’m gay.”

All at once, his father’s brow uncreases, as much as it ever does. “I am aware of that fact, Arthur.”

“I know,” Arthur shrugs, then explains. “I’ve never said it before, though, to anyone. I wanted to see how I’d feel if I did.”

“And how do you feel?”

Arthur puts an awful lot of consideration into his answer, because his father actually sounds like he wants to know and that is a far better reaction than Arthur had anticipated his statement getting. How does he feel, though? He feels tired and bereft, bereaved, though neither his sister nor the man he loves are dead. He feels guilty and ghastly and so ugly it’s beyond forgiveness. He feels lost, missing a limb, missing his life.

“Drunk,” he says eventually, and Uther’s only response is to offer Arthur the bottle and the saddest smile he’s ever seen.

X

Merlin knew getting married would change things. He knew it would mean that they would be inseparable in people’s minds, Merlin-and-Morgana, buy one and get the other chucked in for free, whether or not you wanted both. He knew Morgana would start signing things as Morgana Emrys, even if that knowledge surprised him at first because he’d’ve thought she was the type to keep her own name. He knew that they’d get some kind of tax credit, that he’d have to declare his marital status when filling in some forms, that when he introduced Morgana to people as his wife, they’d blink at him in surprise but, for the most part, be too polite to comment on how utterly out of his league she is. He knew things would be different.

He never realised Arthur would hate him for it, though.

X

It’s not obvious at first, mostly because they’re on their honeymoon and, apart from a quick text to let everyone know that they’ve got there safely, he hasn’t contacted home, and home has returned the favour by leaving the pair of them to enjoy their newlywed bliss in peace. Merlin spends mornings dragging Morgana around museums and galleries, trying not to say _I told you not to wear those heels_ whenever she complains about her feet hurting; in return, she doesn’t laugh at his afternoons full of put-upon sighs as he follows her from one shop to another, weighed down with her many purchases.

In the evenings, they go back to their hotel room, sometimes stopping for dinner on the way. If not, Merlin leaves Morgana to call for room service while he sets the hot tub in their ridiculously enormous bathroom running, and after that point the only thing on his mind is his wife.

He’s happy, so happy that he can hardly believe it’s going to last, but even if it’s only for the moment, that surely has to be good enough.

X

It is with great reluctance that Arthur answers his mobile when Gwaine calls him on Friday, but then since Gwaine has been his main source of both companionship and alcohol over the fortnight his sister and Merlin have been away, he feels obliged to do so. He doesn’t feel obliged to be polite, but then he’s yet to encounter any good deed that would make him consider it absolutely necessary to be polite to Gwaine.

“What?” he says, gruff, trying to ignore how much he sounds like his father.

“Good evening, sunshine,” Gwaine answers, stupidly bright, unpleasantly cheery. “Just letting you know that I can’t make our little margarita and moping session this evening.”

“Oh,” Arthur says, and it’s a bad state of mind to be in when that news actually makes him feel worse. Though, actually... “I know I’ve not really been sober lately, but I think I’d remember if I’d had margaritas.”

“Alliteration, alchy,” Gwaine says, and Arthur resists the urge to make a quip about how that’s an impressively big word for him. “Look, though, we’re making welcome home banners for Merlin and Morgana, so that we can meet them at the airport tomorrow. I offered to invite you, figured it’d save you the trouble of coming up with an excuse if it was me.”

“Oh,” Arthur says again. “Thanks, I guess.”

“Welcome, princess,” Gwaine drawls, and it’s an even sorrier state of affairs that the nickname doesn’t bother him anymore. “I’ll pop by tomorrow evening, if you want?”

“Whatever,” Arthur answers, then hangs up, safe in the knowledge that Gwaine knows him well enough to take that as a yes.

X

It’s not obvious when they’re away, but as soon as Merlin gets back, he notices.

Arthur isn’t at the airport with everyone else to greet them, nor does he appear at the restaurant they all go to for lunch. He’s not at Gwen and Lancelot's welcome home supper, nor does he leave a note apologising for his absence the way Gwaine does.

He doesn’t pick up when Merlin calls to say hello when they get home. He doesn’t pick up on Sunday, when Merlin calls to set up a time for him to give Arthur the gift they bought on the trip, a replica of a sword belonging to one hugely famous emperor or another and a complete bitch to get through airport security.

He’s not in his office when Merlin goes by on Monday, and he’s still not there on Tuesday. On Wednesday, when Merlin doesn’t get the chance to go over there, his emails bounce back, and Merlin tries to tell himself it must be an IT fault rather than because Arthur is blocking him.

Thursday evening, he stands on Arthur’s doorstep for half an hour, watching the closed curtains twitch and then swearing at the locked door until one of the neighbours calls the police on him, and it is only because of who Morgana is that he doesn’t actually end up under arrest.

Friday night, Morgana calls him out on his being “a grumpy, irritable git, as bad as Arthur, honestly,” then demands that he explain why. Merlin does, feeling awful, like he’s done something unforgivable, and when he’s done Morgana apologises, hugs him, then gets down on her knees and does her best to make good on her promise to make him forget about it.

“I love you,” he says after, kissing the taste of himself from her mouth, then following as she leads him to their bedroom and proceeds to make him forget about it all over again.

“I love you,” he says, and resolves to give Arthur another week, maybe two, to come to terms with this huge change in all of their lives, this change that Merlin doesn’t even think he would have made if he’d known Arthur would hate him for it.

He’ll give Arthur another week, maybe two, and then he’ll consider starting to pester him again.

X

“You’re avoiding me,” Merlin says, and for someone so utterly clumsy he’s damn good at sneaking up on people. He’s grinning, too, and the best case scenario Arthur can imagine is that he thinks Arthur’s imminent heart attack is funny. The alternative, that Merlin isn’t just suspecting Arthur is avoiding him but actually knows it, and knows why, and remembers just how badly Arthur took advantage of him...That is just bloody awful. Of course, if Merlin remembered he’d probably hate him rather than look amused, so it probably isn’t that, but...But.

“Can’t you whistle, or something?” Arthur snaps, because it’s by far the easiest response.

“Yes,” Merlin says, dripping with sarcasm, grinning like he always does. “Because who doesn’t walk around the supermarket whistling.”

Arthur frowns, since he’s damn well not going to say Merlin has a point. He doesn’t know what to say, though, still, because Merlin is right and he really doesn’t know how to explain it, how to explain why he can’t stand being in Merlin’s presence any longer. The initial answer is simple – _we slept together when you were drunk, you married my sister, and I can’t bear seeing you happy with her_ – but the aftermath of saying it will probably kill him.

“Look,” Merlin says, and he’s still beaming at Arthur like he’s the first glimpse of the sun after the longest night, like Arthur is and always with be the dawn to him. “I get that it’s maybe a bit odd for you, what with that whole _married to Morgana_ thing I have going on, and I can already hear you calling me a girl for this, but you’re still my best mate and I miss you.”

“You’re a girl,” Arthur says, because that’s what he’s meant to do now, even if what he feels is more along the lines of _I miss you, too_. There’s no way he’s saying that, though, and certainly no way Arthur’s challenging him on the best mate comment, _Is that really all we are,_ Mer _lin?_ because however angry it would sound in his head it wouldn’t come out that way, and Merlin cannot know. Merlin must never know.

He sticks a bag of muesli in his trolley, then a box of weetabix just for good measure, heading down to the end of aisle and halfway up the next one before he realises Merlin hasn’t got his own trolley, or even a basket. “Did you actually come here to buy something, or was it just that you saw me on your way past?”

“We’re out of milk,” Merlin answers, and Arthur decides to pretend that’s an answer.

“You’ll want the fridges, then,” he says, and he’s both proud and sickened by how bland he sounds, like he’s offering directions to a stranger, and Merlin’s expression finally starts to droop a little. “Straight down to the end, then left. I’m sure you’ll find them.”

Merlin’s shoulders slump and he stops following Arthur, stops smiling; it’s like the sun has gone behind a cloud, and just knowing that he’s making Merlin look like that has Arthur feeling worse than he did all the time he was trying to stay away from him, almost as bad as he did that night, months ago now, when Merlin looked at him like he was the world and Arthur betrayed that, betrayed his best friend and his sister and himself.

“Never mind,” Merlin tells him, growing darker by the second. “I’ll let you shop in peace, Arthur. Call me when you get bored of whatever this is.”

By the time Arthur works out a way to call him back that doesn’t involve the awkward, uncomfortable truth of his (ugly, absolutely not platonic) feelings, Merlin is long gone.

X

Morgana, though, is not; where Arthur has managed to put a little distance between himself and Merlin since the wedding, since the week before the wedding, he has only managed to bring his sister to the foreground of his life, and, mostly, she is pissed off.

“He’s moping so much,” she says, hopping up onto his desk and taking a slurp of his coffee, then grimacing at the taste; Arthur doesn’t even try not to be amused, because she has to know he’d never deign to drink one of her stupid, sweet pseudo-coffees. “I just don’t understand why you won’t spend any time with him anymore.”

“Things are different now, Morgana,” he says, and if it was anyone other than Morgana confronting him he’d probably put his head in his hands, but Arthur is damned if he’ll show his sister that much weakness. “You know they are.”

Morgana swings her legs a little, her skirt rucking up enough that Arthur can see the lace at the top of her thigh-highs, and he’s struck with the image of Merlin kneeling before her, rolling them down, kissing each inch of skin he reveals. Of Merlin, looking at him like he was the world. Of Merlin, begging him for more, _please, Arthur, don’t stop, please_. Of Merlin, his words turning into gasps and breathy moans, desperate, wordless pleas.

Of Merlin, drunk.

“It’s different,” he says again, and doesn’t know whether he’s talking about the situation as a whole or if it’s just the complete lack of similarities between his one and only night with Merlin and Morgana’s whole life and happy future with him.

“I don’t see how,” she answers, taking another sip of his coffee; masochism clearly runs in their family, although Arthur thinks he’s probably got it worse than she has (Merlin, his fingers twisting through Arthur's hair as Arthur goes down on him, pulling and begging, slurring, wanting _more, Arthur, please more_ ).

“So what that we’re married now? Merlin and I have been dating for years,” she says, and Arthur doesn’t know where she usually draws the line between kind and cruel but he thinks she’s crossing it today. “We were engaged, Arthur. That usually ends in marriage.”

“I know,” Arthur says, but he doesn’t have anything more to follow it up with; when in doubt, go for repetition (God, does he wish he could repeat it, only with them both sober and probably so much better for that fact). “I know, Morgana.”

“What’s the problem, then?” She asks, with prickles so huge they’re thorns, barbs, her every word drawing blood. “What’s so wrong with Merlin being my husband, baby brother?”

“Don’t call me that!” Arthur snaps, standing up too fast, so quickly that he feels a little dizzy, and Morgana leaps to her feet as well, ready to fight back.

“Why not? It’s what you are, isn’t it?”

“I’m not.”

She circles the desk, stepping, _pushing_ , into Arthur’s space, pushing because she’s never known how to do anything else, and no one ever told Arthur how to retreat either, to see it as stepping out of a fight rather than losing it. “You are, Arthur, and you always will be. My little, irritable, emotionally-stunted _baby_ _brother_.”

“I’m _not_.”

“Not what?” she asks, and laughs, condescending and beautiful and Arthur hates her. He _hates_ her. “Little, sure, maybe you’re not. But this conversation makes denying the irritable kind of difficult, and after how many opportunities I gave you to object to the wedding, you can’t even start to argue that you’re not emotionally stunted. Fuck, Arthur, stunted is being kind.”

“You can go now,” Arthur says, because he can’t argue this with her. “Fuck off back to your shiny new marriage, Morgana, and leave things between me and Merlin the fuck alone. It’s better this way.”

Morgana takes a step back, and for a second Arthur is stupid enough to think she’s actually going to leave him in peace. She isn’t, of course, because _leaving in peace_ isn’t her thing, but she does seem to soften slightly. “Why, Arthur? Merlin’s miserable, you’re…being like this, all the time. How is it possibly better for you to ignore him?”

“I can’t tell you,” Arthur says, even though he knows that he’s only admitting that there’s something to tell, that he's essentially (in Morgana's twisted mind, anyway) giving her permission to keep asking. “It just is.”

"Why?"

"Stop, Morgana. For once in your life, let something go."

"Why?" She asks a second time, something of a smirk to it, and if Arthur was an even lesser man than he is, he'd follow through on his wish to smack that stupid, smug expression from her face.

"Drop. It," he manages, forcing the words out through gritted teeth.

“ _Why?!_ ”

Something snaps inside of him, a spring coiled too tightly and given no room to ease the compression, coiled until it is destroyed, worthless, irreparable.

“Because I slept with him,” Arthur answers, loud, unintended, and for a second he thinks his rage possibly matches hers. Only a second, though, and then the horror of what he just said hits him fully; he collapses back into his chair, landing so hard that the lifting mechanism gives in and the chair sinks as low as it will go, leaving him staring up at his sister, at the utter confusion on her face.

Finally, Morgana retreats, steps backwards until her back hits the wall, and, “You never told me,” she says, and she sounds like she did the day Uther told her he was sending her away, _please, Daddy, don’t make me go_ , young and hopeless and surprised that her family could ever betray her like that, like this. “Merlin never told me.”

Arthur forces himself to make eye-contact, even though it causes him almost physical pain, but he can’t retreat and he doesn’t know how else to repent. “I don’t think he remembers,” Arthur says, like it’s any kind of explanation, like any explanation at all could make this better, like there is anything at all that could make sleeping with his sister's fiancé and keeping it a secret okay.

“You don’t think he remembers,” she answers, her scepticism bordering on tangible (it would feel like ice, Arthur thinks, like the massive icicles that form in countries much colder than England, hanging threateningly overhead, ready to drop and impale some poor, unwary bastard).

“He was drunk,” Arthur continues. “Walking-into-walls drunk, and I wasn’t exactly stone-cold sober, and it was about the stupidest thing I’ve ever done.” _And I regret it,_ he thinks of saying, only he doesn't, not really. He regrets that it happened like that, that Merlin wouldn't have wanted it any other way, but even if it's destroying his mind and his life and his relationship with everyone he's ever known he doesn't know how to wish it undone.

Morgana half-laughs, and it’s only when she says, “I don’t know, brother, it’s quite a list to choose from,” that he realises how much she doesn’t understand yet; Morgana thinks it was a long time ago, before she came back, when he and Merlin were just dumb teenagers and Arthur’s closet was so huge and dark that even he didn’t realise he was in it.

He can’t enlighten her, though, because if he tells the truth Morgana will hate Merlin just as much as she’ll hate him, and Arthur can’t do that. Merlin has a good thing going with her, better than anything Arthur’s ever had, and he won’t take that from him.

She works it out, though, much too quickly, because up until a week before her wedding, _the_ wedding, Arthur wasn’t doing anything he could not to be in Merlin’s presence. “When was this, Arthur?”

“I...”

“Answer me.”

_I can’t_ , he thinks, but Morgana will only give him that look she’s so good at, will only tell him, _No, Arthur, you won’t_ , and he knows he won’t be able to argue that it’s the same thing. “Don’t ask, Morgana,” he says instead. “Don’t ask questions you don’t want to know the answer to.”

“When, Arthur _?_ ” she says, and she’s furious, furious enough that Arthur knows she knows, knows that she’s only really asking for confirmation. “I might not want to know, but I have to, so you better goddamn tell me _when!_ ”

“His stag night,” Arthur says, and all the stuff he’s ever heard about confession being good for the soul, making people feel better...bullshit. Absolute bullshit. “A week before your wedding,” he adds, just in case the secret to the healing powers of confession is telling even more truth (it isn’t).

“You had sex with my husband a week before our wedding.”

“Technically,” Arthur answers, despite the fact that it wasn’t a question and that, even if it was, this reply is about the most stupid thing he can say right now, “Technically, he wasn’t your husband then.”

He half expects her to slap him for that, and knows one hundred percent that he would deserve it if she did. He’s braced for it, too, ready for his sister to whale on him like she should, and when she steps forwards to stand beside him, that’s what he’s sure is about to happen.

Straightforward violence has never been his sister’s style, though, as well he knows. Whenever he’s pissed her off in the past, she’s always gone for the sneak-attack, open tins of tuna hidden at the bottom of his underwear drawer and hair-dye in his shampoo, things he never discovered until it was too late and he had green hair and was going commando because all his boxers stank of rotten fish.

Now is no different: when Morgana picks up his now-cold mug of coffee, he almost thinks she’s going to drink it, or maybe tip it over his head, but she doesn’t. She picks it up, swirls it around a bit like she’s looking for the future in the dregs of a cup of tea, then upturns it on his pristine, immensely expensive laptop.

It sparks, sputters a little, and then dies, and Arthur can’t think of a better metaphor for this moment than that.

“You were right,” his sister says, his twin, one half of the other half of his soul. “It is better this way. The next time I see you near Merlin, I’ll...Well, I’ll never see you near Merlin again, Arthur.”

She turns, leaving the wreck of his life and his laptop smoking in her wake, pausing for a moment in the doorway on her way out. “You know,” she says, and the soft heartbreak in her voice is worse than all the rage. “All you had to do was say something and you could have had him. I love him, but you were my brother, Arthur. You just had to ask me.”

“I know,” Arthur admits, because he does, he did; he knew, all along, that a word from him and everything could have been different, but it was only when it was too late that he realised he might actually have benefited from speaking that word; even now, when all he can see when he tries to sleep at night is Merlin's expression as he stared down the aisle at his bride, Arthur isn't sure anything good could have come of him objecting. “I’m sorry.”

“I don’t care,” she says, neither soft nor raging now. Just herself, Morgana, beyond a doubt the fiercest, strongest person he’s ever known. “I don’t forgive you,” she finishes, her hand on the door handle, and Arthur suddenly realises he still has something else to say, something else he _has_ to say, the only thing he can possibly justify saying to her right now.

“Please,” he gasps, and it feels ridiculous and horrible and far too heartfelt, but his stupidity has already pretty much ruined his own life and he needs to get this out because he’d rather it didn’t fuck up Merlin’s, too. “Don’t blame Merlin, please, Morgana.”

“I don’t,” she answers, and there’s thunder in her eyes. “I blame you.”

X

Merlin gets home late on Thursday, opens the door preparing apologies and explanations, only to find the house aggressively clean, bags of rubbish stacked on top of and around the wheelie bin outside, even more bags of old clothes and books and knick-knacks in the hall by the front door, waiting for the next charity collection sack that gets put through the letterbox. It’s terrifying, and it only gets more so when he walks into the kitchen and finds Morgana kneeling on the floor, scrubbing it to within an inch of its life, either oblivious to or ignoring the tears pouring down her face.

A little part of him wants to leave again, sneaking out before she even realises he’s there, because Morgana can be a little intimidating at the best of times; the only other occasion Merlin’s seen her cry was the day Uther packed her off to school, and he’s fairly sure the shrieking during the argument that followed reached a pitch not actually audible to human beings. He can’t, though, because part of _for better or for worse_ probably involves dealing with Morgana in her slightly less friendly moments, and it certainly means holding her when she cries.

“’Gana?” he asks, and sees her jump only too literally. “What’s up, love?”

X

Morgana looks up at him, part of her wishing she didn’t have to, but he is her husband and she has to know if Arthur was right when he said Merlin didn’t remember; everything she does now depends on that, because she’s known all along that there is something there, something between Merlin and Arthur, and she loves him regardless. She loves him, she married him, and neither of those two facts is at all altered by what she learnt this afternoon. She loves him, and she has to know.

“What’s up, love?” he asks, and somehow, after what Arthur told her, she didn’t think he’d call her that anymore.

Words stick in her throat, so many of them, all of them, and she swipes at the tears on her face; she was supposed to be done with this by the time Merlin got home, was supposed to be herself again, if not happy then at least not like this. “It’s nothing,” she says, holding his gaze, because everything she needs to know will be there. “I went to see Arthur at work today. He said something I didn’t really want to hear.”

Merlin doesn’t flinch at that, doesn’t grimace, doesn’t give any sign at all that he knows what Arthur might have told her, and Morgana believes it. His eyes tell her everything, as they always have, and in this, Arthur is right. Whatever happened, after the drinks and the clubs and the observatory and the taxi ride back to Arthur’s, Merlin doesn’t remember. Merlin isn’t keeping horrible, awful, unforgivable secrets from her; she is the one who will keep them from him. She and Arthur, united in this one final thing.

“What did he say?” he asks, kneeling before her, and if Morgana had been cleaning like a crazy person because she actually wanted things to be clean, she’d be mad at him, ruining her freshly scrubbed floor. “Do you want me to go yell at him for it, because you know I will. Best friend, schmest friend, I’ll yell at him anyway.”

Morgana laughs, and it’s probably not healthy, this, that she’s so willing to be with a man who doesn’t love her entirely, a man to whom her brother is probably almost as important as she is, if he’s not more important all together, but...She loves him, and if Merlin doesn’t remember then it’s almost like it never happened. Or it’s not, not really, but she can live with it, and that’s really what matters.

“No,” she says, determined, filling her tone with a finality that is as much to convince herself as it is Merlin. “It’s okay,” she says, then corrects herself, allowing just a little leeway, a little space to breathe, to recorrect. “It’ll be okay.”

Merlin wipes away the tears she missed, the tears that have almost stopped by now, and when he goes to hug her, she doesn’t push him away.

He’s hers, not Arthur’s, and that’s what matters.


	2. Chapter 2

X

Five months, almost to the day, from their wedding, Merlin finds himself trapped in crazy-land, more so than in his regular day-to-day life.

It’s a Sunday, and everything seems fairly normal, in a dull, drizzly, late British summer sort of way. It’s miserable out, enough so that when Morgana suggests they spend a lazy day at home, Merlin isn’t all that keen on arguing (although, actually, that probably has more to do with Morgana’s practical application of yoga than the weather), and once that decision is made neither of them is particularly inclined to go any further than the bathroom or the kitchen.

Merlin is on his way back to their room, carrying a tray with tea and toast for the both of them, and by the time he gets there, Morgana has put her book aside and looks like she’s been waiting for him for hours rather than just the few minutes he’s been out of the room.

“I’ve been thinking,” she says, and it’s only then that Merlin realises she had this all planned, wanted more than a day of alternately lazy and impressively athletic sex from him.

“I was thinking,” she says, and every man alive knows nothing good ever follows those words.

X

“I was thinking,” Morgana says, and she has been, thinking endlessly about this, thinking about her motives and their meaning, whether she’s doing this to get back at Arthur, or because it’s actually what she wants. Whether it’s because she loves Merlin more than anything, or because she knows it isn’t forever and when he’s gone, she wants to know that there’s someone she loves more than him, maybe even because it’s just what married people do. She’s thought about all of it, churned out the same internal arguments over and over, the most damaged of broken records, and the only conclusion she’s drawn is that she wants to do this.

“I know it’s not been all that long, but we’ve known each other forever, and I sort of feel like we’re ready.”

“For…?” Merlin asks.

“A baby.”

X

Merlin’s immediate thought is that he probably needs to get his hearing checked, because there’s no way in hell Morgana actually just said what his ears are telling him she did.

“Run that by me again?” he asks, because it’s probably a better response than either manic laughter or a mentally deficient _whuh?_

“Well,” Morgana says, and Merlin thinks there’s a breath of amusement to it, “Sometimes when a man and a woman love each other very much…”

“I’m not a moron, Morgana,” Merlin answers, though he’s probably laughing a little too much for his words to have any real impact (not that he’d want them to, because she’s his wife and he loves her and also she can be vicious when angered). “I know where babies come from. I just didn’t think you’d ever want one.”

Morgana frowns, and when she speaks she actually sounds confused. “Why would you think that?”

Merlin, deciding that at this point he’s spent entirely too long standing there staring at her in confusion (also, he’s cold, and nowhere near dressed enough to be hovering in the doorway doing nothing), puts the tray on the nightstand at his side of the bed, then pushes back the quilt and sits next to her. Really, the only result of this is that he’s now on the same level as her as he stares in confusion, but it’s an improvement of some sort, he’s sure.

“Do you remember when we were...I don’t know, fourteen or so?” he asks. “Uther was dating the scary woman with the kid, and he agreed that you and Arthur would babysit while they were out?”

“Nimueh,” Morgana answers, like Scary Woman’s name is really the point he was questioning her about. Then again, with her grasp of logic, it’s probably meant as evidence that she does indeed remember who he’s talking about, and it might be best not to go off on a tangent questioning her when he’s actually trying to make a point.

“Right,” Merlin agrees, then takes a second to work out how best to phrase things. “Remember how you and Arthur completely failed at keeping the brat under control? Your dad had been gone for about ten minutes before you called Mum to rescue you, and by the time we got there it was apocalypse territory.”

“Do you perhaps think you’re exaggerating a little, Merlin?” she asks, and actually has the gall to sound like she’s being reasonable as she says it. “It wasn’t that bad.”

“There was a fire.”

“Only a little one.”

“We had to call the fire brigade.”

She opens her mouth to argue more, and Merlin is fairly sure an inability to concede the point when you’re wrong is firmly entrenched in the Pendragon DNA; nothing else could possibly explain why she won’t let this go.

“No, Morgana,” he says, before she can get started. “A fire is a fire. I’m not sure it matters how big it was. And, anyway, that’s not what I’m getting at. My point is, you hated every second of the kid being there.”

“That isn’t true,” Morgana responds hotly, then wilts a little when Merlin quirks a _please continue_ eyebrow at her. “He fell asleep after a while,” she continues. “I didn’t mind him half as much then.”

“Maybe not,” Merlin agrees, because he remembers the sigh of relief they all breathed when the kid was finally down for the count. “But I also remember what you said when his mother took him home.”

“Like you stand by everything you said as a teenager.”

Merlin has to let that one have some credence, because he can recall at least one distinctly uncomfortable conversation with his mother about his sexuality that he had to take back when Morgana appeared on the scene. At the same time, though, Morgana was pretty damn resolute about this, and Merlin needs to remind her of it. “You said that you were never, ever going to have kids, and that if you ever even considered it Arthur and I were to smack some sense back into you.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

That, Merlin thinks, rather goes without saying. “Obviously,” he agrees; anyone even considering starting a physical fight (or any other kind of disagreement, if he's honest) with Morgana has his pity just as much as they have his hatred. “But this is a big decision, ‘Gana. It’s the rest of our lives and more. It’s _someone else’s life_ , and you might be ready, but I...I need to think about this.”

Morgana stares at him blankly, like the possibility he might say no hadn’t even occurred to her, and Merlin wishes it hadn’t had to, that he could have just agreed and the whole thing would be fine. But a baby, a child, a human being that would be reliant upon the pair of them for everything, a whole existence that could be made and shaped and ruined by Merlin’s decisions; in the future, maybe, in a few years, when their mortgage is paid off and he’s earning a little more, when he’s older and wiser and less likely to massively fuck up raising a child, when he's mastered keeping plants alive and maybe branched out into fish or even a puppy, if he's feeling brave. In the future, yes, but right now Merlin isn’t ready.

“Right,” his wife says, sliding from their bed and into a robe that serves better to tease than to conceal anything, and Merlin didn't refuse outright because this is the reaction he knew he would get but that Morgana would be pissed off by him saying he needs to think about it never actually occurred to him. “I’m going for a shower.”

“Morgana,” Merlin starts, standing as well. “’Gana, you know I didn’t-”

“Leave it, Merlin,” she says, cutting across him as she grabs clothes from the wardrobe on her way to the door. “I’ll see you later.”

X

His first instinct is still to call Arthur, even though _hi, Arthur, your sister wants to me to knock her up_ probably doesn’t make for a brilliant conversation starter.

Of course, it wouldn’t be that; the conversation would probably go more along the lines of _hi, Arthur, your sister stormed out of the house because I refused to knock her up, any idea where she might have gone?_ which isn’t really likely to go down a whole lot better.

It’s not an option anyway, though, because Arthur still won’t return his calls or reply to his text messages and refuses to show up anywhere he thinks Merlin might possibly be. Arthur isn’t his friend anymore, and Merlin has to man the fuck up and accept that fact.

He has other friends, Gwen and Lancelot, Gwaine, Elyan, Leon, Freya and Elena and Percival. He has other friends, other people who mean something to him, not to mention his mum and Gaius, plus the odd, extended family they don’t see all that often, but there’s no one he can talk to as easily as he used to be able to talk to Arthur.

There’s no one like Arthur, and Arthur doesn’t even want to know him anymore.

X

“And then,” Morgana says, reaching the end of her story and the part where Gwen ought to start making sympathetic noises, “He said he needed to think about it, like guys haven’t been begging me to let them do it bare for years.”

Gwen frowns at that, and Lancelot looks like he wants to be distinctly absent, but then Morgana never asked him to stick around for this; even so, he’s Merlin’s friend, and she should probably do something to make this a little less awkward for him. “Not recently, of course,” she says, even though that should be pretty transparent, but it makes Lance look slightly less constipated. “Before Merlin, I mean, but still. What’s wrong with him?”

“Erm,” Gwen says, but not in the _where do I begin?_ way that Arthur would. “I’m not sure that there’s anything wrong with him, Morgana.”

“You think it’s me,” Morgana realises, but then it’s not like it’s not blatantly obvious anyway. “You think there’s something wrong with me.”

“No!” says Gwen, at the same time as Lancelot says, “Not at all, Morgana.”

“Honey,” Gwen says, moving from her big comfy chair to sit on the sofa beside Morgana. “Can you get us a pot of tea and some biscuits, please? I think there’s some of the cookies I made yesterday in the green tin.”

Lancelot, ever the good man, obeys, and Morgana suspects he probably won’t come back until Gwen gives him one of those telepathic couple signal things that she and Merlin have never managed to get down, maybe never will manage to.

“Morgana,” Gwen says, taking Morgana’s hand in her own. “Believe me when I say that there is nothing wrong with you. _Nothing_.”

“There is, though,” Morgana answers, and she’s torn between trying to take her hand back so she can hide her face and clinging to the only person she’s got to hold on to at the moment. “I knew,” she confesses, and so far she’s never said this to anyone other than Arthur; even then, she never said anything this specific. “I knew Arthur loved him, and I married him anyway. How is there nothing wrong with me?”

Gwen looks surprised, and just about as close to tears as Morgana feels. “Oh,” she says, opening her arms, and Morgana falls into them like she no longer knows how to stay upright on her own, how to exist without someone to hold her together.

“He slept with him,” she says, the words mangled by her sobs and her face pressing into Guinevere’s neck. “Arthur slept with him, and Merlin doesn’t know.”

“Hush,” Gwen says, rocking her like she’s the child she spoke to Merlin about earlier, the child that would make Merlin hers and hers alone, the child she never wanted but now can no longer imagine a future without. “Hush,” she says, holding her until her tears stop, although Morgana thinks they’re probably dormant rather than gone.

“Now,” she finishes, “From the beginning, Morgana, and then we’ll work out some kind of plan.”

X

In the absence of anything better to do, Merlin thinks.

He thinks about the likelihood of this being a terrible idea, the likelihood that he and Morgana are completely unfit to be parents. Morgana comes from money, has so much of it that Merlin’s fairly sure it means nothing to her, and he wouldn’t want his children to grow up like that, possessed of so much that it’s all valueless. That’s why he wouldn’t let them get the sort of house Morgana grew up in (not that she’s quite that rich, anyway), refused to even look at anything with more than three bedrooms, refused to let her use her inheritance when between the two of them they earn enough to keep up mortgage repayments.

Even so, their house is far grander than the one he lived in as a kid, and he can’t imagine that Morgana won’t spoil their child rotten, or that he’ll really try all that hard to stop her when it comes down to it.

He loves her, though, and between the two of them he can guarantee that their child will be loved, will be the most precious, most important thing either of them has ever done.

He loves her, and if this is what Morgana wants, who is he to say no?

X

“I see,” Guinevere says, when it’s all out there, when she knows everything Morgana has tried so hard to keep hidden. “I think you know what you have to do, Morgana.”

That’s the worst of all of it, Morgana thinks. She knows it, has known it for a while, and still the idea terrifies her, destroys her, because even if Merlin loves her – and she knows he does, of course he does – he won’t stay. He’ll never stay, but that doesn’t mean it’s not the right thing to do anyway.

“I know,” she agrees. “I need to go home. I need to tell him the truth.”

X

Merlin is pacing when she gets home, pacing and pacing and pacing, and the madness Morgana is fairly sure is a permanent part of her brain wants her to look at the carpet behind him for the tracks he has to be leaving behind, the groove he has to be wearing there.

“Merlin,” she gasps, wanting to throw herself at him, grab hold and never let go, the same way as she did with Gwen earlier, but that’s not how it works. She can’t be honest with him if he’s holding her, because if he’s holding her she’ll never want him to let her go.

“Morgana,” he answers, and he’s apparently not got the memo about no contact because he’s across the room in a heartbeat, pulling her into a hug so tight her feet lift off the ground. “I’m so glad you’re back,” he babbles, “You’ve been gone for hours, and you left your phone behind, and I didn’t know where you’d gone, and...yeah, I’m glad you’re back.”

It’s about then that Merlin remembers oxygen is a necessity, she assumes, since he both puts her down and drastically loosens his grasp, even if he doesn’t actually let her go. “You’re right,” he says, and any other time she’d make a smart-arse _obviously_ quip. Any time, other than this. “We’re adults, and we’re married, and it’s not like money is a problem. We can afford to raise a child, and...I love you, Morgana. If you think we can do this, I’m all in.”

“We can do this,” she says, and if the thing clouding her voice is far more guilt than it is anything else, that’s just another thing she’s never going to let Merlin know.

X

Arthur is fairly sure it’s been at least a month since he last spoke to his sister, since he saw her for anything other than the once-a-fortnight, deeply hostile family dinners his father keeps throwing in an attempt to fix things between the pair of them; even if he doesn’t know what the problem is, it’s pretty damn obvious to all concerned that something fairly major is broken. It’s longer since he spent time with Merlin, but then that’s for the best. If Merlin and Morgana aren’t going to separate – and Arthur is fairly sure they’re not, ever – then Morgana is right, and Arthur shouldn’t be anywhere close to him.

Still, it’s very definitely weeks since he last spoke to Morgana, which is why it’s such a surprise that she’s here, in his office, looking just as fierce as she did at the end of her last visit, when she forbade him from ever going near Merlin again, as if he even needed the warning. Then again, he doesn’t need to hear whatever she wants to say this time, but he reckons he probably won’t get out of it.

“Morgana,” he says, wary and yet curiously anticipatory; he feels like he's awaiting execution, or he would if those awaiting execution were strange enough to look forward to their fate as well as dread it.

“Arthur,” she answers, and if Arthur had needed any proof of how much she despises him, it’s there in her voice. It's there, and it hurts like he deserves. “I’m going to ask you a question, and I expect you to be very honest when you answer it.”

He thinks about arguing, but if there’s anything he owes her, it’s honesty; there is only one real villain in this scenario, this mess between he and Morgana and Merlin, and it is not his sister. “You have my word,” he agrees, because even if there is hatred between them now, so much hatred, it will only ever be one-sided.

He doesn’t expect a smile of acknowledgement, which is why he isn’t surprised when he doesn’t get one. The question she asks, though, is entirely beyond the realm of what he might have considered likely, or even possible.

“Were you safe?” she demands.

“I- what?”

Morgana stalks towards him, her shoes weapon enough to kill even if her expression isn’t. “When you fucked my husband,” she says, seeming to delight in his rapidly indrawn breath, the way he wants to protest that it wasn't that, not exactly, but just isn't brave enough to do it. “Were. You. Safe?”

X

Arthur looks at her like she’s insane, and maybe she is, but this is still a question she needs to know the answer to, in light of the decision she and Merlin have made. She didn’t care when she first found out – she had wanted to pretend it never happened, or at least that she didn’t know about it – but now, when for the first time in her life she’s planning on having unprotected sex with a man (she might have been something of a slut as a teenager, but she was a long way from being stupid about it), this information is vital.

“I don’t really see how that’s any of your business,” Arthur says, and for all that he’s making an effort at sounding cool and unconcerned, he’s a long way from succeeding at it.

“Well, Arthur,” she says, and she shouldn’t rejoice in his pain like this, not when Arthur would never do that to her, but she does. “Merlin and I are planning on starting a family, and you are going to tell me if I need to make him get tested first.”

Arthur looks unutterably heartbroken, and for a moment Morgana actually regrets her words. She needs to know, yes, but there may have been a more tactful way for her to ask, a way that doesn’t make her brother look like it’s the end of the world as he knows it (and, Morgana has no doubt, he’s a long way from feeling fine). It’s only for a moment, and then he answers her.

“We were in the spare room,” he says, and the cold fury in his voice is almost a match for hers. “I wasn't exactly running to my bedroom for a condom before..." He cuts himself off, then corrects. "No," he says, sounding repentant enough that she almost feels guilty. "No, we weren't safe."

Morgana stands up, smoothing her skirt down and flicking her hair back over her shoulder, trying to look like this is nothing, just words, not a real problem. Arthur isn’t stupid enough to believe the lie – _no one_ is stupid enough to believe that lie – but Morgana has her pride, and she has enough of it that she has to act out the ruse anyway.

“See you around, baby brother,” she says, and can’t resist one final drop of poison on her way out. “I’m sure Merlin will ask you to be godfather, and I’d wager you still can’t say no to him. Best carry on avoiding his calls, if you don’t want a very uncomfortable, very difficult life.”

Arthur doesn’t have a reply for that, but then venom has always been more her skill than her brother’s.

“Wait,” he says, as her hand is on the door, and Morgana knows that whatever he has her waiting for won’t lead her to question her assumption; when Arthur speaks this time, all she will feel is remorse. “I went to a clinic the Monday after,” he says quickly, to her back, since Morgana cannot bear to look at him.

“And?”

“And I might be a bastard, Morgana, but I’d’ve told you and Merlin if I had something. I’m clean.”

Morgana keeps her sigh of relief silent, internal; any delay in her having to tell Merlin the whole truth is a welcome one, and this news is welcome even beyond that.

“He still misses you,” she says, opening the door, because one good deed deserves another. One good deed deserves another, and he’s still her brother; however hard she tries, she’ll never truly hate him. “He’ll always miss you, Arthur.”

X

Arthur thought he was done with drinking, but then he thought he was done with feeling like this, too.

He’s done with drinking alone, though, which is why he calls Gwaine as soon as Morgana is gone.

“I’m skipping the rest of the afternoon,” he says, when Gwaine picks up. “Going to the pub, if you’d care to join me?”

“You know me, princess. If you’re buying, I’ll be there in half an hour.”

X

“I'm ovulating,” Morgana says to him over supper, like that’s normal meal-time conversation. “You know what that means, right?”

Merlin smiles at her, because, even if the idea of fatherhood still terrifies him a little, their decision is made, and a little fear doesn’t mean it’s the wrong one.

X

Gwaine insists on eating while they drink, like that’ll do anything to mitigate the blinding headache Arthur is hoping will really brighten his day tomorrow, and even if he talks almost non-stop the whole time they’re there, it’s only when they’re starting their third shared plate of chips that he finally asks the question Arthur has been mentally preparing himself for.

“So, princess,” he says, soaking a handful of chips in a disgusting amount of ketchup before shoving them in his mouth. “You gonna tell me what this is about?”

For a second, Arthur almost considers answering, then remembers why it is that it’s Gwaine he’s reliant on now, rather than any of his other friends. “I wasn’t planning on it. I was kind of counting on you letting it go, actually.”

“Or maybe I’ve let it go long enough, Arthur. Maybe it’s time someone got this whole thing out into the open.”

“I need another beer,” Arthur says, because even if his complete reluctance to talk about the whole horrible mess with Merlin and Morgana is beyond Gwaine’s comprehension, that won’t be.

Gwaine taps his hands on the table in some peculiar rhythm, then stands up. “Right you are, princess. One more, and then we’ll see about getting you home.”

X

For some reason, Morgana thought it would happen quickly; they’d decide, she’d come off the pill, she’d sleep with Merlin without protection and bam, she’s pregnant.

She’s grown up with sex-ed horror stories of how simple it is, how just one time can lead to pregnancy, how the only way for a woman to be a hundred percent sure she’s not going to fall pregnant is to not have sex at all. Everything made it sound so easy, so straightforward, so damn near immediate.

The first time she gets her period after they start trying, it feels like karma.

Merlin looks like he has no idea what to do with her as she cries.

X

Merlin feels helpless – hopeless, even – as the months pass and nothing changes.

He feels helpless, hopeless, and horribly guilty, like it’s his doubts that are fucking them over.

X

Months pass, nothing changes, and if Morgana needed any more reason to believe the world is on Arthur’s side, this is it.

X

Months pass, nothing changes, and Merlin doesn’t know where he’s going wrong.

X

Months pass.

X

“It’s okay,” Merlin says, kneeling on the bathroom floor beside her, even though he isn’t sure it is. “Morgana, love, it’s okay.”

Morgana presses against him, pale and shaking, clinging like a limpet, and all Merlin can do is hold her. “Please,” he continues, because he doesn’t know how much longer he can stand seeing her like this. “We can stop,” he tells her. “We’ll stop. I don’t care if you think we’re ready. I just want you to be happy again.”

She sinks closer into him, the shaking continuing, accompanied by sounds now, snuffling noises that break Merlin’s... “Hang on, are you...?”

“Yes,” she says, sliding back a little, and when Merlin can see her face there’s no mistaking the relief on it. More than relief, even; delight, delight like he hasn’t seen since their wedding day. “I’m laughing.”

After so long – or what feels like it, anyway – Merlin isn’t sure he’s ready to believe it yet. Maybe it’s just wishful thinking, such a strong desire to see Morgana back into the woman he’s known for years, the woman he married, and he can’t ask her outright. “That’s good...” he says slowly, hesitantly, because the wrong word might break everything.

“It’s better than good,” she answers, still beaming, gleaming, in this moment as golden as her brother, and that’s not a comparison Merlin could ever have seen himself making. “It’s so much better than good,” she says, “I’m pregnant.”

X

Merlin has her on her feet in a second, whirling and giddy, and she knows he has doubts to match her own, doubts that probably make her concerns seem tiny, but when he looks as happy as she feels, everything else seems to pale in comparison.

Merlin has her on her feet, twirling her like they’re in a ballroom rather than a bathroom, like she’s dressed in silk rather than an old robe thrown on over even older pyjamas, and Morgana laughs louder, harder, fairly sure she’s never felt as beautiful as she does in this moment, as beautiful or as alive. “I love you,” she says, and for the first time in forever, she feels like he’s hers.

X

“So, when do we tell people?” Merlin asks, when the knowledge sinks in and the glee abates a little (also, they’ve relocated to the kitchen, mostly so that Merlin can put ice on his forehead after their impromptu waltz ended with him headbutting the sink).

Morgana blinks at him, her smile slowly shrinking. “Are you serious?” she answers, and Merlin is not following, not when her tone is so far from what it was a few minutes ago.

“I don’t follow,” he says, since that’s probably the easiest and safest way for him to put across his complete lack of understanding.

Morgana looks cool, distant, and Merlin thought that mood swings were supposed to come later on than this. “We’re not telling anyone yet,” she says, strict, decided.

“But-” he starts, thinking of his mother, her father, Arthur. Even if Arthur refuses to have anything to do with him anymore, he’s still Morgana’s twin, their baby’s uncle, and Merlin cannot comprehend why she doesn’t want at least the three of them to know immediately.

“No!” she snaps, then calms suddenly, softly. “It’s only been a few weeks, Merlin. We’ll talk about this again later, in a month or so.”

“I see,” Merlin answers, and whatever joy there was filling him a few minutes ago, it’s gone now, replaced by a shivering uncertainty that Merlin doesn’t how to deal with. “Okay,” he agrees, taking her hand, because she’s the one who has to carry their child, and the rest of it is probably just as much her choice. “We’ll talk about it later.”

X

Months pass, little changes, and Morgana continues to shut him down each time he mentions telling people. He gets why, after she reels off a list of statistics about false positives and pregnancies that don’t make it through the first trimester, but even so. This is good news, news that ought to be shared, and even in the terrible event that all might not go as they have planned, having people like Gwen and his mother know can only be a benefit.

“How long do you plan on not telling people?” he asks one evening, as Morgana returns to their bedroom from the bathroom, dropping her towel on the floor (because Merlin is too much of a sucker to tell her that it’s not his job to pick up after her) and slipping into her pyjamas. “Because they are going to notice at some point.”

“Maybe,” she says, and Merlin is familiar enough to know that this is the Pendragon version of letting someone else be right. “But they won’t yet.”

“Erm,” Merlin answers, knowing immediately that saying anything is a mistake.

“I see,” Morgana says, going from idly brushing her hair in front of the mirror to peering intently at herself, putting the hairbrush on her dressing table first. Merlin watches her reflection as her hands rest briefly on her hips, then slide across her belly, fingers fluttering lightly, and Merlin knows what she’s feeling, the slight roundness there that wasn’t present before, the extra curve he notices every time he touches her, every time he looks at her.

“It’s not...” He starts, the sentence fading into silence when his wife’s hands slide upwards, over her stomach and further, fingers pressing gently into the indentation between each of her ribs before curving under her breasts, cupping them, and maybe the change isn’t as obvious there but Merlin doesn’t doubt that she’s noticing that as well.

“Maybe,” he continues, swallowing and crossing the room to stand behind her, his left hand on her hip and his right on her bump (small or not, it’s definitely still a bump). “Maybe I only see it because I know, but I can see it, and it’s maybe weeks before everyone else you spend time with sees it too.”

Morgana meets his gaze, placing her hand on top of his and lacing her fingers between his. “Okay,” she says, turning in his arms and pressing close. “Yes, okay, we’ll tell them.”

“Thank you,” Merlin says, leaning down for a kiss, and it never even occurs to him that this honesty isn’t really something he should have to be grateful for.

X

If they’re doing this, Morgana decides, they might as well do it properly, a big event where they tell everyone at once (except Hunith, who Merlin called mere minutes after Morgana agreed it was time to let people know, and Uther, who Morgana called three days later, when she got tired of Merlin telling her to do so over and over again).

She calls the restaurant she and Merlin had their first real date at, booking a table for ten (she and Merlin, Gwen and Lance, Leon, Elyan, Percival, Gwaine, Elena and Freya; not Arthur, because telling him will require more tact than a group gathering and Merlin sitting right there), then sets to calling everyone.

“Don’t make plans for two weeks on Saturday,” she tells them all, and Merlin, when he gets home. “We’re going out.”

“Yeah?” Merlin asks her, slumping down onto the sofa beside her, looking exhausted. She waits until he’s leaning on the armrest, the tenseness draining from him, then rests back against him.

“Yeah,” she answers, “All of us. It’s time to let everyone know.”

“All of us?” Merlin says, and Morgana can practically feel what his next words are going to be. “Arthur too? I know he’s mad at me for whatever reason, but this is his niece or nephew. He shouldn’t hear from someone else.”

Her first, cruel instinct is to say that Arthur shouldn’t hear about this at all; it’s Arthur who is out of line, Arthur who told her to go ahead and marry Merlin, Arthur who climbed into bed with Merlin as soon as they were both drunk enough to think it was a good idea, Arthur who shut Merlin out afterwards, knowing he would have no idea why.

It’s Arthur who walked away, and it’s Arthur who needs to extend the olive branch and ask permission to come back.

“I mean,” Merlin adds, and he’s looking wary now, uneasy, and Morgana thinks too much of what she’s thinking must have shown on her face. “It’s only right that he should be there. He’s family.”

_I’m your family_ , Morgana thinks, _I’m your family and this baby is your family and you chose_ us _._

She doesn’t, because buried somewhere deep down she does actually have a heart, and she’s not ready for it to break entirely just yet. Merlin doesn’t know he made a choice, and Morgana will not take the chance that if he finds out he’ll change his mind.

“I don’t know, Merlin,” she says, which is the best alternative she can think of. “He might not want to be there.”

“Please?” Merlin asks, his eyes wide, beseeching, and if she thought he had any idea how powerful that look was, if she thought there was any chance he used it to deliberately manipulate her, Morgana would despise him. He’s Merlin, though, and just the suggestion that his blue-eyed begging is anything other than entirely sincere is laughable.

She wants to refuse, she truly does, but Arthur isn’t the only one who doesn’t know how to say no to Merlin.

“I’ll try,” she agrees, and she’d like to say it’s her pregnancy that has her so exhausted all the time, but, actually, it’s just her life, and the colossal fuck-up she’s making of it.

Merlin beams at her, the same way he always has, and it’s that that compels her to add, “I can’t promise anything. But I’ll try.”

“I know, love,” Merlin answers, and that word, that name, still feels like a gift to her. “That’s all I’ll ever ask of you.”

X

The thing is, Merlin says _all_ , like what he’s asking is nothing, but then to him it is.

Merlin doesn’t realise that asking her to invite Arthur further into their life is agony for her.

Merlin doesn’t realise that what he asks, she will do, and if Merlin wants Arthur there, Morgana will make sure he is.

X

“Why do you do this to yourself, Arthur?” Gwaine asks, and someone so much shorter than Arthur shouldn’t be able to loom like he does, waiting just outside the place Morgana and Merlin have picked for this meeting.

“I didn’t know you smoked,” Arthur answers, since Gwaine knows damn well that the reason Arthur keeps putting himself into these situations is not something open for discussion.

Gwaine laughs, dropping his cigarette and grinding it out under his boot. “Well kept secret,” he says. “Plus, it makes for an excellent excuse not to go inside places I don’t want to be. Wanna go somewhere else instead?”

_Yes_ , Arthur thinks, every ounce of his being behind it. “It’s Merlin,” he says, and Gwaine just nods.

“Right then,” he says, opening the door and holding it for Arthur to precede him. “Let’s see what the shit-storm is this time, princess.”

X

Morgana feels Merlin freeze, his hand clenching in hers, and for a moment she has no idea why.

“Well,” Gwaine says, slow and satisfied, that way he has of somehow sounding ridiculously pleased with himself whilst also managing to be both deeply sarcastic and utterly serious. “Look who I found, showing up late as ever.”

It should probably be a comfort that Merlin isn’t the only one to leap to his feet, but it really isn’t, not when Merlin’s hand slips free of her own as easily as sand in an hourglass.

“Arthur,” he says, and Morgana presses a hand to her well-concealed bump like she can cover her child’s ears, keep him from hearing the absolute adoration in his father’s voice as he flings his arms around her brother.

Arthur doesn’t move as Merlin hugs him, holds him, clings to him like he’ll never let him go, like he’ll never want to hold anyone other than him. He just meets her gaze over Merlin’s shoulder, meets and holds it, and Morgana has no idea what to make of his expression beyond the fact that she doesn’t like it.

She stands, hand dropping slowly to her side, wanting the security of leaving it there but they’ve not said anything yet, and Morgana is determined not to give the game away. “Come along, husband,” she says, stalking around the table, half-smiling in gratitude at the way their friends step aside so she can be second in the queue for a hug. “Somebody else’s turn now, I think.”

Merlin steps back, a sheepish, sappy grin on his face. “Sorry,” he says, waving her forward. “He’s all yours.”

X

Morgana doesn’t stand on tiptoe as she reaches up and puts her arms round his neck, forcing him to bend down to hug her back. “Hello, baby brother,” she says quietly, for his ears only, and Arthur feels her left hand press even harder again his neck, a ridge of skin-warmed metal digging into him. He knows his sister, knows that that’s a statement just as obviously as her words to Merlin were, Morgana reminding him yet again of her claim on Merlin, as if he were in any way close to forgetting.

When Morgana releases him with a scratch of nails along the back of his neck, Arthur hopes that that’s it; his hugging duties are surely over now, so he can sit and listen to whatever this is, then somehow get the hell out of here and start drinking again. Instead, though, there is Gwen, Elena, Lancelot, Freya...even Elyan, Leon and Percival feel the need to express physically just how much they’ve missed him over the last few months.

Eventually, though, he’s free, or at least free to sit down beside Gwaine; he highly doubts that it’s at all accidental that the only seats empty are those directly opposite Merlin and Morgana, just as he doubts that it’s in any way Merlin’s doing.

Merlin is practically buzzing with excitement, or apprehension, or something of the like; for all it’s pouring off him, Arthur can’t quite work out what it is. It’s intense, though, enough that in the short space of time he manages to look at his sister’s husband, Arthur sees Morgana place a calming hand on top of Merlin’s no fewer than three times. Each attempt lasts no more than a couple of seconds, but it’s still enough that by the time the waitress is done taking their meal orders, Arthur is reaching for the bottle of wine, ready to refill his glass for the second time, and Morgana is apparently done trying to control her husband.

“Now?” Merlin asks her, or so Arthur assumes, since he’s not actually looking at them. It ought to be quiet, inaudible from as far away as Arthur is over the noise of their friends, but it isn’t. Arthur has always been far too attuned to the sound of Merlin’s voice, and distance doesn’t change anything.

“Now,” Morgana agrees, following it up with the chiming of a knife on glass.

Arthur looks up at that – it’s instinct, and one far too well ingrained by his upbringing for him to break it now – to see the pair of them stand up, all eyes in their group on them.

“We’d like to make an announcement,” she says, and Arthur focuses on their joined hands in the very futile hope that concentrating on the hideous pain that causes will keep him from hearing what their next words are going to be.

“We’re having a baby!” Merlin finishes, and in the moments of silence before everyone bursts into surprised congratulations, the scrape of Arthur’s chair on the floor as he stands up is awfully, incredibly loud.

X

“Whoa, mate,” Gwaine says, across the room in less time than it takes Merlin to blink, stepping in front of him and catching him with an arm across his chest. “Let him go, Merls.”

“But…” Merlin says, staring at the door, the one Arthur just left through, and this is the first time he’s been in the same room as Arthur in months. How is he supposed to just let him go?

“No buts,” Gwaine orders, and Merlin isn’t quite sure he knows who the man standing next to him is, but he seems an awfully long way from the easy-going bloke Merlin met at uni. “Either you sit back down with your pregnant wife and all your friends or you come with me to get another round in, but there’s no way in hell I’m letting you walk out there after him.”

“I-”

“ _No_ , Merlin. You’ve fucked him up enough already. Let him go.”

That stings, burns, way worse than the time he fell off his bike and landed in the largest patch of nettles known to man or beast. It burns, and it really doesn’t make sense, because Merlin isn’t the one who’s done something wrong here. Merlin’s not the one treating his best friend like a stranger, on the rare occasion he even deigns to acknowledge him at all.

“If you’re not going to make sense, get the hell out of my way, Gwaine,” he says.

Gwaine looks at him fiercely, his usually soft, slightly unfocused gaze replaced by something hard and unrelentingly sharp. “My God,” he says eventually, and surprise isn’t a big enough word to do his tone justice. Revelation gets closer, maybe, like whatever Gwaine has found in Merlin’s face has changed his entire view of the world, or something. “You really don’t have any idea, do you?”

Merlin’s silence seems answer enough, since Gwaine shakes his head and grabs Merlin by his wrist, hauling him even further out of the hearing range of their group. They wind up at a table in the corner, dark and secluded and not at all the sort of place Merlin would pick if it was up to him, but apparently it isn’t.

“Jesus,” Gwaine says, his elbows propped up on the table and head buried in his hands. “Jesus, Merlin. He’s going to kill me for telling you this, but...Jesus. I figured you knew, and pretending you didn’t was some accidentally insensitive way of letting him save face. It never occurred to me that you actually...Fuck. _Fuck_.”

Merlin is fairly sure no conversation has ever left him as lost as this one does, particularly since by this point Gwaine seems to be mostly talking to himself (and not just in the usual _no one else is listening to him_ way).

“Jesus,” Gwaine says again, and this time he just sounds exhausted, like whatever internal conflict he’s just waded his way through has taken all he had to spare. “Jesus, Merlin.”

That, Merlin thinks, is really just one time too many. “As flattering as that comparison is, I’ve heard enough of it. I’m going now.” He stands at that, is halfway out of the booth before Gwaine’s next words stop him dead.

“He’s in love with you, Merlin.”

“Who is?”

As soon as he asks the question, Merlin feels impossibly stupid; the context leaves no room for doubt who Gwaine is talking about, even if the actual idea is laughable.

“Please don’t make me answer that question, Merls. You can’t actually be that thick.”

Since that’s pretty much exactly what he just thought, Merlin knows he shouldn’t take offence at it, but knowing he shouldn’t be offended isn’t at all the same thing as not being offended. “Says you,” he scoffs, and Morgana would probably be pretty damn proud of how sceptical he sounds. “You don’t actually believe that...” and there the words stick in his throat, because how can Merlin say it? Just thinking that Gwaine might actually be trying to say that Arthur is...that Arthur...just thinking it is absurd, and so ridiculously vain, and if Morgana was here listening she’d probably die laughing. “You don’t believe _that_ , do you?”

Gwaine frowns at him, cool and distant. “Believe what? That Arthur is arse-over-tit in love with you?”

This is it, Merlin thinks. This has to be the moment where Gwaine laughs, any attempt at being serious gone, and Arthur appears from around some corner to laugh with him, _God, Merlin, I can’t believe he actually had you going for a minute_ , because it’s just not. It can’t. “That doesn’t even make sense,” he says. “That’s...Arthur wouldn’t. He can’t.”

“Well,” Gwaine drawls, and it’s not amused, not even in the slightest. “He apparently missed that memo.”

“But Morgana,” Merlin says, like that actually works as an objection, like the mere existence of Arthur’s sister makes this impossible. Arthur’s sister, his wife. “Morgana.”

“Yeah,” Gwaine agrees. “And that would be why you need to let him go. Not just tonight, but until he’s ready to let you back in.”

That one freezes Merlin more than all the rest of this madness put together, steals the air from his lungs and replaces it with ice, solid and painful and impossible to breathe around. “But it’s Arthur,” he says, and if the mere possibility of Arthur having feelings for him left him blindsided, the idea of Arthur not being in his life any more is like being hit by a truck, like being hit by a truck that then reversed just so it could run him over a second time. “It’s Arthur.”

_He’s my world,_ Merlin thinks, and the images brought to mind by that thought make him feel sick.

“Shit,” he says, reeling, and it’s like he blocked it out, liked he’d decided it had to be a dream because the possibility that it wasn’t was too horrendous to consider, is still too horrendous to consider, even if he’s fairly sure it’s a hell of a lot more than a possibility right now. “I have to go,” he says, standing up so quickly that the table wobbles, falls, hitting the floor with a crash that has all eyes in the restaurant on him.

“Merlin-” Gwaine starts, not knowing how to go on, but Merlin can’t think of that as anything other than good, anything other than the only saving grace of this night.

“I have to go,” he says again, not looking at Gwaine, who has to know what he’s realising; _you’ve fucked him up enough already_ has to mean exactly what it now sounds like it means. He can’t look at the others, either, at Gwen and Lancelot who would never do something like this to each other, at unflinchingly, unfailingly responsible Leon, at Elena and her sweetness and Elyan and his straightforwardness and any of them.

At Morgana, his wife.

_You were my world_ , he told Arthur, right before he kissed him and held him, pulled him so close that the weight on top of him was almost as suffocating as the idea of it, _Arthur_ , not being there. _You were my world_ , he told Arthur, drinking his way into honesty just a week before his wedding, drinking his way into Arthur’s arms and Arthur’s (spare) bed, drinking his way into taking advantage of Arthur even as Arthur took advantage of him, drinking and thinking his way into the delusion that it was nothing, that it never even happened.

_You were my world,_ he told Arthur, and, the thing is, he doesn’t know where the past tense comes into it.

And Morgana, and his child.

X

“Excuse me,” Morgana says, as everyone blinks in surprise at the sight of Merlin reappearing from his and Gwaine’s gloomy corner and sprinting towards the door; there’s no way at all for her to make this dignified, she knows that, but that doesn’t mean she can’t try. “I believe that was my husband Gwaine just scared off. I shall be back shortly.”

They’re all too startled to laugh at her words, or even to say anything in response, so Morgana manages to make it over to Gwaine before he escapes from his and Merlin’s unnecessarily intimate corner (not that she’s jealous, not that there’s anything to be jealous of; not there, anyway).

“Ah,” Gwaine says as she approaches, then says it a second time when she sits beside him in the booth, trapping him between her and the wall. “Ah.”

“A little louder,” she says. “Maybe a tad higher, too, and then we’ll be closer to the sound I’m looking for.”

Gwaine laughs, the fucker, leaning backwards in a sprawling sort of way, draping his left arm along the back of the seat behind her. “Morgana, darling,” he drawls. “If you want me to scream for you, you only have to ask, sweetheart.”

“What the fuck,” she says, and right now she’s deeply regretting the fact that she’s let Merlin persuade her into wearing flat, boring shoes since the start of her pregnancy, because she has more than one pair of heels at home that would probably make their way through Gwaine’s shoes and hopefully his feet, too. “I’ll let you keep your skin after that remark, if you tell me concisely, politely and precisely what you told my husband.”

Gwaine flinches most gratifyingly at that, even the shadowy darkness not enough to hide the sudden pallor of his face, but then he’s smart enough to know she’s never in her life made an idle threat. Still, his jaw is set, stubborn, decided.

“I told him what you and Arthur wouldn’t,” he says, and there’s not a tremor to it. “I told him the truth.”

“What truth?” Morgana asks; even though it’s a little unexpected that Gwaine actually comprehends the concept of truth, let alone the fact that he is apparently capable of telling it, there are still a great number of things that Gwaine could have said to Merlin.

Gwaine isn’t smiling anymore, but then Morgana is pretty sure his smiles were never all that amused to begin with, at least not this evening. “I told him not to follow Arthur,” he says, calm and rational. “Told him to give him space, told him he’d done enough damage already, and when I realised just how utterly clueless he is, I told him that Arthur’s in love with him.”

Those words hit her as hard as steel and twice as cold, leaving bruises made so many times worse by the fact that they’re in her heart rather than on her skin. “You wouldn’t,” she breathes, boneless and limp, and she knows instantly that it’s about the dumbest thing she could say; Gwaine would, and there’s no real doubt in her mind that he did.

“You _bastard_ ,” she says, trying not to be shrill. “You have no right!”

“Guess not,” Gwaine agrees, slow and sly, relaxing again, or at least doing a good job of faking it. “But there’re two people who do, and you’ve both had years to say something.”

“Maybe there’s a reason we didn’t.” Morgana stands up, placing a hand on his shoulder and sinking in what Arthur has always described as her claws. “Maybe you should have bloody well thought before you opened your mouth.”

“Someone had to tell him,” Gwaine answers, batting her hand away. “He deserves to know.”

_I know_ , Morgana thinks, but just because Merlin deserves the truth it doesn’t mean she was ever actually going to be ready to give it to him, and after Arthur’s refusal to stop their wedding, Morgana is fairly sure he wouldn’t have been, either. “Go fuck yourself, Gwaine.”

“If I could do that, sweetheart...” Gwaine says, getting up from the booth as soon as Morgana gives him enough space to do so. “As it is, someone has to make sure your brother doesn’t drink himself to death after that little stunt you just pulled. Have fun with your guests.”

X

Merlin doesn’t go home, even though he thinks he probably ought to. No one will be there – Morgana is far too well-raised a hostess to leave their friends alone with their meal and the bill after their announcement – and he will, at least in theory, be able to lock himself in somewhere until he works this out.

At the same time, though, the idea of sitting in his and Morgana’s house whilst thinking about Arthur, about having slept with Arthur, makes him feel so incredibly guilty he thinks he might be sick from it. He can’t go home: he lost any right to even call it that the night he slept with his wife’s brother.

Merlin doesn’t go home; Merlin cannot go home, not until he knows what he’s going to do.

Instead, he just walks, and for once looking up at the stars just makes him feel horrendously, horribly alone.

X

Arthur doesn’t bother locking the door behind him when he gets home, since he’ll only have to drag himself from the sofa to the front door when Gwaine shows up. And, he’s pretty much certain, Gwaine is going to show up; lately, that is what Gwaine does when Arthur is feeling crappy.

He’ll probably be pissed with Arthur for getting started without him, but that’s not enough to stop him from grabbing the bottle of rotgut whiskey he bought on his way home last night.

He collapses on the sofa before opening the bottle, the little click-click-click of the lid coming off for the first time oddly satisfying, then takes a large, spluttering gulp. It’s disgusting, but when his goal is to get as drunk as he’s ever been in the shortest possible time, there’s really no point in wasting his money on the good stuff; he drinks again, then a third time.

By the time there’s a hammering on the door, Arthur is well past the point of slurring, and almost feeling a little better about the fact that he’s shagged his unborn nephew’s father.

“Door’s open,” he calls, distinctly uneasy with the concept of moving, and it’s only as someone is halfway into his flat that it occurs to him that shouting that isn’t really all that smart.

Fortunately, it’s only Gwaine (not something Arthur’s ever thought before, that), which means Arthur doesn’t have to worry about having to fend off some unknown madman intent on murder or robbing him blind.

Instead, the very definitely known madman just leaves his muddy boots by the door and flings himself down on the sofa beside Arthur, holding his hand out for the bottle.

“Not pathetic enough to be drinking alone, are we, princess?” he adds, when Arthur takes what seems to be a little too long in handing it over.

“It’s shit,” Arthur warns; judging by Gwaine’s grimace, his words are a tad too late.

“So’s life, princess,” Gwaine answers, and even if Arthur would think he’s too sober to be quite so philosophical, the second swig he takes straight from the bottle is probably a good start at changing that. “Doesn’t mean we quit trying.”

X

Eventually, Merlin’s legs decide that enough walking is enough, and it’s either sit down in the middle of the street and enjoy the wonderful British weather or find a Travelodge, since he’s still not ready to go back to his wife.

X

“What if I want to?” Arthur asks, and he doesn’t know if it’s minutes or hours since Gwaine’s words, but he suspects the conversation, largely one-sided though it may be, has moved on since then. “When do I get to decide that enough is enough, and I don’t have to keep trying anymore?”

Gwaine moves beside him, a sudden lurch that seems to have no purpose at all, and Arthur squints at him through the bleary haze of what he’s pissed enough to admit probably ought to be called a drinking problem.

“You don’t,” he says, and it’s equal parts concerned and impossibly firm. “It sucks, this thing with Merlin and Morgana, but I swear to God, Pendragon, if you even think about topping yourself over it, I’ll kill you.”

“If I...” Arthur says slowly, the words dragged from him at the same speed as his thoughts, then followed rather suddenly by a very solid realisation. “Whoa,” he says, way quicker and more than a little horrified. “Not what I meant.”

Gwaine doesn’t relax at all, but he does pick up the bottle again, wiping the neck on his sleeve before taking a swig so large it makes Arthur’s drinking feel pitiful in comparison. “Better not be.”

“It’s not,” Arthur says again, taking _his_ whiskey back. “I’m just tired, Gwaine.”

“So’re we all, princess. It’s going to get better, though.”

“You don’t know that,” Arthur argues, or it would be an argument, if his tone was even close to anything other than defeated.

“Yeah,” Gwaine says, laughing but very decided, putting his arm around Arthur’s neck in a messy, uncoordinated hug. “Yeah, Arthur, I do.”

X

Arthur hasn’t kissed anyone in the months since Merlin, hasn’t kissed anyone without being over the limit for even longer than that, and he’s kind of surprised to realise he still knows how to do it.

It helps that it’s Gwaine, of course, and that he’s spent his adult life perfecting the art of kissing people. He’s good at it, confident to a degree that borders on arrogance, and even if Arthur isn’t entirely sure how they got from companionable and very definitely vertical drunkenness to horizontal snogging, he doesn’t know how to stop it, or even if he wants to.

It’s warm, comfortable, not excessively exciting but definitely not unpleasant, and for the first time in forever, he doesn’t feel quite so lonely.

“Please,” he says, into the mouth that slides against his own, intimate and the closest thing to comforting Arthur can imagine anything being right now. “Please,” he echoes, spreading his legs for Gwaine to settle between them, his weight pinning him down, but not so much that Arthur can’t pull himself up enough to tug his shirt over his head.

Gwaine copies him, rising briefly up on to his knees then pressing back down again, somehow finding time in their few seconds of separation to unbutton not only his own jeans but Arthur’s as well.

It’s as much of an invitation as Arthur is going to get, and certainly as much of one as is required (it’s Gwaine, after all, which means a smile is usually enough to count as an invitation); as Gwaine’s mouth drags along Arthur’s jaw, stubble prickling his skin, Arthur slides a hand down, fully unfastening Gwaine’s fly before tugging aside the waistband of his underwear enough to get inside.

It takes a fair amount of fidgeting before Gwaine is able to return the favour, his palm dry and rough against Arthur’s cock, as rough as the sharp edge of teeth on his throat, as rough as Merlin was soft.

Gwaine seems to reach the same heat-killing realisation within seconds of Arthur finding it; he stops, freezing as Arthur does, the pair of them extracting their hands and sitting up, as far from each other as the confines of the sofa allow for.

“Not really a good solution, is it, princess,” Gwaine says, still breathing as unevenly as Arthur is.

Arthur slumps, his head in his hands. “Not even a little bit,” he agrees, then stands, tugging his clothes back into place before screwing the top back onto the almost empty (so close to it that it’s probably a miracle they got as far as they did) bottle sitting on the end table beside him.

“You ever get over Merlin, though,” Gwaine says, like he’s trying to soften the blow or possibly just shatter the uncomfortable tension between them, “You’ll give me a call, yeah?”

Arthur laughs, defeated and dismal. “It’s not happened yet,” he mutters, then decides the best solution is to pretend that nothing ever happened. “Water?”

“Please,” Gwaine says. “And if we’re really lucky, we’ll have forgotten all about this by the morning.”

“One can only hope.”

Gwaine trails him to the kitchen, draining the pint glass of tap water Arthur hands him as quickly as they necked the bottle, then bumps Arthur aside to refill it, emptying the second a little more sedately. “This’d be a bad time to ask if I can crash here, wouldn’t it?”

_It is_ , Arthur thinks, but then that’s no excuse to boot Gwaine out when he’s way too far over the limit to get behind the wheel of a car, and even though he probably doesn’t have the cash to spare for a taxi home tonight and another one back to collect his car tomorrow morning when he’s sobered up, he wouldn’t accept if Arthur offered him it. “Tonight is pretty much a bad time for everything,” he answers. “You can take my room; I’ve been not-sleeping in the spare.”

Gwaine gives him an odd look but doesn’t pass comment on that, which Arthur can only consider a relief. “Thanks, mate,” he says, taking his glass with him from the kitchen. “Not-sleep well.”

X

By morning, Merlin has slept for maybe two or three hours, but he has at least come to some sort of decision about his marriage.

First, though, he has to talk to Arthur.

X

Arthur doesn’t open the door when someone knocks on it at half eight in the morning, partly because he feels like he’s dead, partly because he wishes he was, and mostly just because the only visitor he’s cared to have in months is still asleep in his bed.

“Arthur,” Merlin calls, soft enough not to piss off the neighbours, loud enough that Arthur can’t ignore it. “Let me in, please.”

Needless to say, Arthur doesn’t, because he’s too far from happy to pretend to be that for Merlin. His ignoring him should be enough for Merlin to go away – it always has in the past, or at least it has since the second time Arthur did nothing when the old bag next door followed through on her threat to call the police if Merlin didn’t leave – but then today clearly plans to be just as shitty as yesterday.

“We need to talk,” Merlin says, this time accompanied by a hand pushing the letterbox open and an eye peering through it; it’s a tactic Arthur is familiar with him employing from the last few times he’s tried to get Arthur to talk to him, and Arthur is fairly sure he’s not in Merlin’s line of sight. It hardly matters, since Merlin either has a sixth sense for when Arthur is at home or he’s been having similarly one-sided conversations with an empty house in Arthur’s absence, but that doesn’t mean Arthur plans to confirm his presence.

Merlin sighs, far louder than he’s been speaking. “Fine,” he says, and that’s increased in volume, too. “Fine, you prat. I wasn’t going to play it like this, but maybe you’ll actually acknowledge me if I do. I remember, Arthur, and if you don’t open the door and get me a strong coffee so we can talk about this massively messed up situation, I’m going to start telling everyone in hearing range exactly _what_ it is that we got up to after my stag night.”

His words leave Arthur feeling lost, stranded on a beach without a rescuer in sight, and he’s motionless just a moment too long.

“Right,” Merlin says, with the kind of long, exaggerated inhale that suggests this is going to be both loud and extended. “So, _Arthur_ , after I told you that you’re my world, you reminded me of the fact that I was a week away from marrying your twin sister, then we kissed. I took my shirt off, then you took off yours, and then everything’s a little bit hazy but I’m fairly sure you had your mouth on my-”

“Enough!” Arthur says, because he’s relived it a thousand times, breathless and desperate and hating himself but completely unable to stop. He doesn’t need to hear it aloud, particularly not at this volume. “You can come in,” he adds, unlocking the door and holding it open to let Merlin in, then closing it again before he can make eye contact with any of his neighbours who might be looking for the source of the noise.

Merlin smiles, tight and uncertain, then walks past Arthur into the kitchen, putting on the kettle like it’s only yesterday that he was last there. It might as well be, of course, because nothing has changed; he goes straight to the correct cupboard to get mugs, then grabs the jar containing coffee without bothering to turn it around to check the writing on it.

“You having one, prat?”

“Black,” Arthur answers, though if Merlin still remembers which drawer to find teaspoons in, he’s not going to have forgotten how Arthur takes his coffee.

Merlin puts their drinks on the table, then sits in the same chair as he always did in the past, back when they’d eat breakfast together after a night out. He sits, waits for Arthur to sit opposite him, and stares, saying nothing. Funnily enough, the silence isn’t as easy as Arthur thought it would be.

“You wanted to talk,” he says. “Talk.”

Merlin puts his mug down roughly, a thunk of pottery on wood and a splash of coffee that makes Arthur want to snap at him for not using a coaster. “Fine,” he says, and never before has Arthur thought _dangerous_ an accurate description of Merlin, but right now that’s how he sounds. “Do you want me to start with the part where you sucked my brains out through my cock, the bit where my hands wouldn't cooperate enough to jerk you off however much I wanted to, or shall we just skip to you dressing me again afterwards, Arthur?”

Arthur swallows, thinking in hindsight that the silence was probably better. “That was a mistake,” he says, and guilt makes the words come out far gruffer than he intends.

“Yeah?” Merlin challenges. “Which bit?”

“All of it,” Arthur says, and the gruffness is accompanied by defeat now, defeat and a thunderous sense of loss. It was a mistake when he ignored his feelings long enough to let Morgana get there first, and it was a mistake when he let all the opportunities he had to say something slip by. The whole fucking thing is a mistake, and Arthur would do anything to go back to before that summer when Morgana moved home again and he lost his chance to make a move without it being a betrayal of himself and his sister and Merlin. “It was all a mistake.”

Merlin stills at that, suddenly far less forgiving than he was a second ago. “All of it,” he echoes, and Arthur has the distinct impression that it’s not what he was hoping to hear. He doesn’t understand how or why that might be the case, because Merlin married Morgana, Merlin impregnated Morgana, and those aren’t exactly the actions of a man who wants to hear proclamations of undying affection from someone _not_ Morgana.

“I’m sorry,” Arthur says, because even if Merlin doesn’t look likely to forgive him, it doesn’t mean he doesn’t deserve an apology, and it doesn’t mean Arthur isn’t entirely sincere when he gives it. “You were drunk, I took advantage of you, and you have no idea how awful I feel about it all. I am sorry.”

Merlin shakes his head, his hands clenched tight around his mug, knuckles whitening, but his expression seems pretty much unfazed. “I don’t care about that, Arthur.”

“You don’t care about the fact that I waited until you were drunk and a week away from marrying my twin sister to make a move on you,” Arthur says, enough scepticism to it to make up for the lack of question. “Why do I find that so hard to believe?”

Merlin looks calm, almost rational, as he answers. “You didn’t take anything I wasn’t offering, and when you thought I wanted to stop, you did. It was wrong for us to do it, but it was _us_ and we were _together_. We wronged Morgana, but you didn’t wrong me, so you can stop flogging yourself for that much and explain why the possibility of me remembering was so terrible.”

“How can you ask me that, Merlin?” Arthur says, and regret is all he is, all he has. “You chose Morgana.”

“I didn’t know I was making a choice,” Merlin tells him, and he almost sounds like he regrets it as much as Arthur does. “I didn’t even know there was a choice to make.”

“You wouldn’t have chosen any differently.”

Merlin stands up, looking at him with wide eyes, as blue and fathomless as the ocean. “We’ll never know, will we, Arthur?”

“So, you think you’d have left her?” Arthur says, and he cannot stay sitting while Merlin stares down at him like he is, like Arthur is unknown to him. He cannot stay sitting, and he cannot stay silent, because Merlin must know how ridiculous what he’s saying is, and even if he thinks the argument they’re having is totally rational, he has to realise that there’s no point in it, not until one or the other of them invents time travel or happens across the Doctor. They can’t go back. They can’t go back, and Arthur doesn’t know how to move on. “Is that what you’re saying, Merlin? You think that if we’d woken up in bed together, you’d have gone home and broken my sister’s heart a week before you were going to marry her? You think anything would have been different if you’d known?”

“I think ev- Gwaine?”

X

_I think everything would have been different_ , Merlin starts to say, before the movement he glimpses over Arthur’s shoulder catches his attention; it wouldn’t normally, not in a conversation this complicated and this important, the conversation that will end his marriage and change everything for all of them, but since he was pretty sure they were alone, learning that they’re not seems worthy of note.

“Gwaine?” he asks, and in the moment it takes for him to realise which door it is Gwaine is sticking his head out of, everything is very, very still.

That’s Arthur’s bedroom, he realises, and as he looks from Gwaine to Arthur, to the stubble rash on his face and the bruise on his neck that Merlin hadn’t noticed until this moment, the tempest hits.

“Hey, Merls,” Gwaine says, and he looks so fucking casual, standing there shirtless in Arthur’s bedroom doorway, his jeans unfastened like he’s only pulled them on over his underwear because there’s someone other than Arthur in the flat. He sounds so casual, too, nothing at all like the man who dragged Merlin into a dark corner and turned everything he believed upside down only a matter of hours ago. “Sorry to interrupt. Arthur, you mind if I take a shower?”

“Go ahead,” Arthur answers, so dismissively that Merlin has to wonder how many times Gwaine has asked that of him, how often Gwaine has slept in his bed, and he knows he has no right to feel jealous, not when he’s married to someone else, but he does. God, he does.

No one says anything as Gwaine walks into the bathroom, as he locks the door, even for the first minute of the shower running. Merlin is speechless, or at least as far as productive sentences go (unfortunately, the only words in his head right now are _he told me you love me_ , and that is not at all a helpful thing to say), but Arthur’s silence leaves him a little mystified.

“Merlin,” Arthur says eventually, sounding tired, wary, and almost scared of the words he’s letting free. “It wouldn’t have changed anything.”

_It would have changed everything,_ Merlin thinks again, but that conversation is over and done with. “You’re right,” he says, allowing himself one last moment of memorising Arthur’s face even as he wishes it wasn’t this face, this expression, that he’s memorising. It’s stupid, but then believing for a second that Arthur could actually love him was stupid too, as was letting that preposterous belief unearth everything he’d buried so well.

It’s stupid, and it’s a damn good thing he came here first, because otherwise he’d have thrown away his whole life for nothing, for feelings that he’s ignored all these years and could have continued ignoring for so many years more, if it weren’t for Gwaine’s stupid delusions last night.

“You’re right,” he says again, shaking it off, shoving it all back in the box even if the lock is gone and the hinges broken, even if it can’t ever be buried again, not really. “I need to go home. My wife will be worrying.”

X

“God, Merlin,” Morgana says, throwing herself at him as soon as he walks through the front door; she’s sworn to herself that she isn’t going to yell at him, that she’ll take whatever is coming like a mature, sensible adult, like the heart-of-stone bitch she pretends to be whenever things get rough, but that doesn’t mean she hasn’t been borderline frantic in his absence. “I was so fucking worried about you. Don’t ever do that to me again.”

Merlin doesn’t hug her back but, when she’s fairly sure she knows what’s going to happen next, that’s not a surprise. She steps back, letting him into the house, forcing herself to meet his eyes as he passes her, and then again as she joins him in the living room. He’s sitting on the smallest armchair, the uncomfortable one they always offer to unwelcome guests, and Morgana doesn’t know that she’s ever known anyone other than her father actively choose to sit there.

“I cheated on you,” he says, when she’s settled on the sofa, his gaze still locked with hers, like he has to be looking at her for this to be worth saying, and even though she’s expecting it, it still hurts. “It was once, a week before our wedding, and I’d managed to block it out until yesterday. I know it was a heinous thing to do, and I don’t expect you to forgive me for it, but-”

“I know,” Morgana interrupts, and maybe that’s the result of her pride, what little she has left of it. She may have married the man her brother is in love with, a man who loves her brother in return, but she is not a fool, and she will not have Merlin think it of her. “He told me what happened.”

“Oh,” Merlin answers, the wind gone from his sails, the momentum from his words. “It was once,” he says again, like repetition will make it easier for her instead of harder. “It was once, and it was a mistake, and I understand if you can never forgive me for it, but I love you, I love our child, and I will spend every single day of my life trying to make it up to you, if only you’ll let me.”

“Oh, Merlin,” she says, and part of her wants to yell at him to leave, get the hell out of her life, run away and never return. A second part wants to forgive him unconditionally, the way she forgave him months ago, when Arthur first told her and she made the decision to stay with Merlin anyway. “Oh, Merlin,” she says again, as a third part of her wants to curl up in a corner and cry until someone comes along to make all of this better, wants to cry and curl herself protectively around the tiny, fluttering life in her belly.

The life that is half hers, half his, and entirely unique, entirely perfect, entirely deserving of two parents who love each other and love him, their baby. “It’s okay,” she says, and even if it’s not true right now it will be, one day in the future.

“I love you, Merlin,” she says. “We can survive this.”

X

_I love you, Merlin,_ she said, and that’s still true. It’s the second part she has her doubts about; she told him that it would be okay, that she loved him and they’d survive it, and when she said it, it didn’t feel like a lie.

Until today, Morgana hasn’t had a problem with morning sickness, but when Merlin brings her breakfast in bed all she wants to do is throw up.

X

Arthur is at work before half seven on Monday, regardless of the fact that his hours are supposed to be nine ‘til five. He’s been awake since five, though, and turning up more than an hour before his official starting time is nothing new, not since the wedding.

Honestly, he likes his job, likes the facts and figures, the way he can line them all up so that they make perfect sense. He likes the order, the exactness, the knowledge that when he fucks up at work he can fix his mistake in no more than a couple of hours.

In short, what he likes most about his job is the complete lack of resemblance between his work and the rest of his life.

X

“I’m sorry you’re feeling crappy,” Merlin says, meeting her eyes in the mirror above the fireplace as he straightens his tie. “I’d stay if I could, but...”

“I know, Merlin,” she answers, trying not to sound how she feels; she knows it, certainly, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t a little resentment there. “You don’t have enough holiday days to stay home taking care of me.”

“I love you,” Merlin says, leaning down to brush a kiss to her cheek, then straightening the blanket she has draped over her legs, partly to keep her warm but mostly because she’s feeling ill and that’s what illness means, curling up on the sofa under a blanket with mug after mug of tea.

“I love you, too,” Morgana tells him, and tells herself the second part again: _we can survive this_.

She still feels sick, though.

X

When the person entering his office on the dot of nine doesn't knock before opening the door, Arthur knows it is only likely to be one of two people; either it's his sister, or it's her husband.

The chance of Merlin showing up after how abruptly he left Arthur's house yesterday is not high, Arthur is in no doubt of that, so he braces himself for his sister's appearance; Morgana is supposed to be banned from the building after her blatant disregard for company property, but since she's made her way past security at least once since then, there's no reason to believe she cannot and will not do so again. Hell, after whatever the conclusion of his discussion with Merlin yesterday was, Morgana probably has even more reason to find her way inside to shout at him.

He looks up, ready to face his sister's fury, and is relieved to see an entirely different face instead.

"Annis," he says, standing as soon as he realises the woman in his office is not his sister but his equally intimidating employer. "Can I help you with something?"

"You can, Arthur," she answers, closing and, more disturbingly, locking his office door behind her before settling herself opposite him; Arthur sits as well, since looming over his sister is fine but looming over his boss is a little inappropriate. "You've been putting in a lot of extra hours lately, haven't you?"

"Erm," Arthur says, since this wasn't exactly the question he was expecting. "I've been busy," he explains, although one would probably use the term loosely given the not quite truthful nature of his words. "Lots to do, you know. I don't… I'm not expecting to be paid overtime for it, ma'am."

Annis smiles at him, and Arthur isn’t entirely sure whether or not she intends to be condescending but that's definitely how it comes across. "I don't imagine you are, Arthur," she says, quiet, sitting so still that the usually creaky chair is absolutely silent. "The night security have told me you've been arriving earlier and earlier lately, and I'm fairly sure you're the last person to leave here most evenings, all without saying a word. If you were hoping for overtime, that's hardly the way to go about it."

"I've had a lot to do," Arthur repeats; he's not sure where this conversation is going, but vagueness seems the way to go regardless.

"So you said," she says, sounding distinctly unconvinced and rather stern. "So you said. Of course, that's not quite what your colleagues are saying. In addition to your own work, you also appear to be doing that of the junior analyst we have lately changed our minds about employing, not to mention anything else that comes across your desk."

"Erm…"

She laughs, relaxing. "It's okay, Arthur," she says, far lighter than she was, far less imposing. "I'm not here to berate you for putting in extra. I'm here to offer you a promotion."

X

After the fiftieth time Merlin checks his phone for messages and finds nothing, he gives up; yes, he made the effort to come in, but when his pregnant wife is ill, he figures he has enough reason to leave. So, he goes home early, expecting to find Morgana still huddled on the sofa, and is understandably concerned when she isn't there.

He checks their bedroom next, then the bathroom, although the unlocked door there is enough that he doesn't get his hopes up. The kitchen after that, then he goes into the cupboard under the stairs to check for her shoes and coats, all of which are there. Her car keys are in the bowl on the table, too, along with both her house keys and the spares.

After that, he launches a systematic search of the whole house, whilst simultaneously checking his phone for any messages from her that he might have missed. There's nothing, though, and it's only when he's scoured the entire downstairs for any place a pregnant woman might be able or willing to hide that he decides to call her, again, in the hope that he might get an answer this time.

He doesn't, but he does hear her phone, and by now he's gone from concerned to worried, bordering on panicked; he can't find his wife, all her shoes and coats and keys are still in the house as, apparently, is her phone.

He keeps it ringing, though, hoping that wherever he finds it he'll also find some kind of clue as to what happened or where she is.

The noise takes him upstairs, going through to voicemail when he's on the second step, necessitating a brief pause to call back again. For a moment, he thinks Morgana's phone is in their bedroom, that he'll see it lying on her bedside table where she usually leaves it in the evening, a source of neither evidence nor assistance, but it doesn't; her ringtone takes him onwards, to the spare bedroom.

He pushes the door open and breathes a sigh of relief; there is Morgana, holding a paint roller and a tray of paint, powder-blue streaked through her hair, dotted on the noise-reducing headphones that cover her ears and the mask over her mouth, her phone flashing and buzzing on the floor behind her.

She's here, she's okay, and, apparently, she's redecorating.

For now, that's enough that Merlin isn't going to interrupt her.

X

Morgana finishes what she can reach of the wall she's working on, then steps away, putting down the roller and the paint tray before admiring her work, and only now does she realise how cold it is with all the windows open.

She's never decorated before, never particularly wanted to, but for her son, she will.

Merlin's in the kitchen when she goes downstairs, hovering over the cooker like the good housewife she will never be, which is something of a surprise. Somewhere in the midst of painting, Morgana lost track of the time; she had no idea it was anywhere near time for him to be home, let alone an appropriate time for food to be made.

"Smells good," she says, leaning over the pan then whirling backwards as Merlin moves to take it from the heat.

"It does, doesn't it?" Merlin agrees, scraping spaghetti bolognese onto a pair of plates before carrying them over to the table, leaving her to get them each a glass of water. "Dig in."

She does, and for a good couple of minutes there is silence, comfortable and safe, broken only by the scraping of cutlery on china plates, until…

"What if it's a girl?" Merlin asks.

She pauses, halfway through chewing a mouthful of spaghetti, then swallows. "It's not," she says, certain.

“You don’t know that,” he tells her, sounding just as sure. “We told the nurse we didn’t want to know, remember?”

“It’s a boy, Merlin,” she says, and she doesn’t know how she’s so sure, but she is. She just is.

Merlin frowns long and hard at her, only to shake his head eventually, not asking. He never asks, and Morgana doesn’t know if that’s a good or bad thing. “Okay,” he says, quietly, peacefully, nothing of an argument to it. “Maybe the next one will be a girl.”

Morgana smiles, shaky and hollow, borderline nauseous, and her heart is ice.

X

Merlin washes the pots, then follows her up to the spare room – the nursery, as he should probably start calling it – picking up a roller and getting to work on the patches she’s left bare, the patches too high for her to reach.

They work in silence, and Merlin isn’t sure how to break it.

“I’m tired,” she says eventually, lowering her paint roller, and Merlin feels like he’s being given permission to do the same.

“You’re paint-y, too,” he tells her, and she is, her hair streaked with blue, splotches on her face and up the lengths of her arms, dotted over her jeans and ruining a jumper that probably costs as much as Merlin makes in a week.

“Yes,” she says, bland, looking down at herself like she either hasn’t noticed or just doesn’t care. “It’ll wash,” she continues, sounding just as remote. “I’m going for a bath.”

“Want a hand scrubbing your back?” Merlin offers, and only half of him hopes she’ll say yes. Half of him hopes she’ll say yes, and the rest of him feels like he'll throw up at the mere suggestion, sickened by the idea of touching her – of being allowed to touch her – after what he’s done.

“I think I’ve got it,” she answers, and Merlin pretends he isn’t relieved.

X

Morgana returns to work the following day, leaving the nursery two walls done, two still to go.

There’s still time, she tells herself, and it feels like just as much of a lie as everything else.

X

Arthur types out a thousand emails to Merlin, deleting all of them before he can let himself hit send.

Some things cannot be fixed, and some people don’t deserve for them to be. Arthur has no doubt which is the case here.

He types out a thousand emails to Merlin, deletes them all without sending them, and carries on working at his shiny new job in his shiny new office.

X

She hates him, sometimes. During the day, when he forgets the boundaries she has set, when he forgets there is a reason for the distance between them, when he buys her flowers and chocolates and cooks her favourite meals, looks forlorn and rejected each time she steps out of reach. Sometimes, she hates him.

At night, too, when he rolls over in his sleep and presses against her, an arm around her waist. When his sliding away wakes her in the morning and Morgana is torn between kicking him for the breach in their unspoken contract and holding him close. When he dreams, the sort she used to wake him from with desperate, hungry kisses, the sort that now make her want to jam an elbow into his gut and demand to know who he dreams of, what he dreams of, and then remind him that he is hers, taken, and what can be forgiven once is unforgivable a second time.

Sometimes, she hates him.

The problem is, even then, she still loves him more than anyone.

X

“Here,” Morgana says, grabbing his hand and pressing it to her bump, holding it there, and Merlin doesn’t know if it’s an exaggeration to say that it’s more contact than she’s allowed him in months. It feels like it should be, because she’s his wife, pregnant or not, and even beyond that she’s his friend, the closest one he has now that he and Arthur are no more. It feels like it should be, but he doesn’t know that it is.

She’s smiling now, though, her eyes meeting his directly for the first time in what seems like forever, a happiness to them that is exquisite to behold, the first green bud on a tree long winter-dead.

“What’s...” he starts, almost afraid to break the moment, and then realises he doesn’t have to ask anyway. “He’s kicking.”

“He is,” Morgana agrees, and when Merlin, swept up in the moment, the life that is theirs, the future still ahead of them, leans down to kiss her, she doesn’t stop him.

X

They finish the painting after that, and it seems to Merlin that they get more paint on each other and the floor than they do on the walls, pausing for kisses and cups of tea, a closeness that has been missing for months, a closeness that makes Merlin want to forget how long it hasn’t been there.

For the first time since he told her about what happened with Arthur, Merlin actually feels like they might work out.

“I missed this,” he says, when they’ve cleaned up, together, and are standing in the middle of a pale blue room, staring at what they’ve accomplished. She’s leaning against him, her back to his chest, wet hair soaking his t-shirt, their hands linked, resting on her bump, their son. “I missed you.”

“I’m not the one who went away, Merlin,” she says, quiet, heavy, and, _you are_ , Merlin thinks. She _is_.

_You knew,_ he thinks, thinks but does not say. _You knew before I did, and you were fine. You knew for months, and there wasn’t distance between us; you knew, and you never told me, you chose not to tell me, you and Arthur took this from me._

“I’m sorry,” he says, because it’s too late to say anything else, too late to resent the pair of them for the choices they made.

“It’s done,” she answers, and it’s not the same as the _it’s okay_ she gave him when he first told her, but it’s enough. It’s the past, it’s done, and they’re both still here.

“Yeah,” he agrees. "It's done." He presses a kiss to the top of her head, trying not to wonder if she realises just how closely those words echo his thoughts.

X

Waking up in the middle of the night is nothing new to Morgana, not when pregnancy apparently means needing to pee every two hours, but waking up in pain is more recent.

The first time, she thinks her son is just feeling particularly energetic; he always shifts more at night, when she wants to be asleep, kicking and punching and generally making a nuisance of himself more and more as her due date approaches. It hurts, but that's just part of being pregnant; Morgana gets up, not so accidentally bumping Merlin's arm on her way to the bathroom, then gets a glass of water from the kitchen and goes back to bed. Merlin is snoring again when she gets back there, and it's not long before she's sleeping, too.

Then the second wave comes, launching her into wakefulness maybe an hour and a half later, bringing her upright, desperately trying to hold herself together, and she wonders if it's not that, if it's contractions, but it's not really time yet, not yet. It's Braxton-Hicks, she tells herself, then gets up to pee again.

The third time, her water has broken.

"Merlin," she hisses through gritted teeth, then elbows him and yelps when the pain comes again. "Wake up!"

"Ouch," Merlin answers, his jaw cracking as he yawns wider than a tunnel. "What was that for?"

"I'm in labour, you git. Get me to the hospital, now."

With the exception of his rushing after Arthur at the dinner where they announced the pregnancy, Morgana doesn't think she's ever seen him move so fast.

X

Once, after their first big fight, Morgana cheated on him.

It was their first year of university, back when the three of them were actually close, before Arthur started to cut himself off from them, before Morgana started hating him for having all the parts of Merlin’s heart she never managed to make an impact on. It was once, and it was years ago, and there hasn’t been a moment since then that she hasn’t regretted it, hasn’t wished she could undo it.

She’s never told him, though. She didn’t tell him the morning she staggered back to her room without her underwear and found him waiting outside with a box of the stupidly expensive truffles Uther buys her for Christmas every year. She didn’t tell him when they bumped into the guy and his girlfriend a few weeks later at the student union, when the guy winked at her and the girl mentioned how nice it was to see her again, when Merlin looked increasingly confused as the conversation he witnessed between the three of them got more and more suggestive without ever being explicit about what happened. She didn’t tell him the next time they fought, when she was flinging all the poison she could think of at him, or any of the times after that.

She didn’t tell him when she should have done, when she could have done, and she didn’t tell him when Merlin came clean about Arthur, either.

She never told him, and now she never will.

X

“He’s beautiful,” Merlin says, and he hasn’t looked at her since the midwife placed their son in his arms. “He has your ears. I was worried.”

Morgana smiles, although, if she’s totally honest, that hadn’t even really appeared on her list of concerns. “He does,” she says, looking at the love of her life, her child in his arms. “Beautiful,” she echoes, and when Merlin looks up at her, the smile on his face powerful enough to melt galaxies, her decision is finalised, and it is now or never.

She holds out her hands, and Merlin walks from the crib at the foot of the bed to sit in the chair beside her, cradling their child like he’s the most precious thing in the world. He is the most precious thing in the world, of course, but it is good to know that Merlin knows that too.

“Here,” he says, his arms lingering around hers so long that Morgana isn’t sure if it is reluctance to hand over their baby or if he’s just worried that her grip isn’t secure enough.

Still, he does hand him over, and Morgana gazes down into the tiny, red, scrunched up face before her, the tiny, red, scrunched up face that needs her to be strong.

“Thank you,” she says, catching just a glimpse of blue through eyelids almost entirely closed, a flailing fist and a tuft of dark hair sticking out the top of the blanket. This is hers, this beautiful, perfect new life, hers and Merlin’s, and it is the last thing they will ever do together.

“I need you to go,” she says, meeting Merlin’s eyes, and, even if she knows this is the right thing to do, she still isn’t entirely comfortable with how quickly he leaps to his feet.

“Of course,” he says, without a second’s pause. “What can I get you?”

_Ah_ , Morgana thinks, since that rather explains his eagerness. “No, Merlin,” she says. “Merlin, I need you to leave, actually leave. I need you to not be in our house when I get out of here.”

“I don’t understand,” he says, as if his expression wasn’t clear enough evidence of that.

“I know, love,” she tells him, looking back down at their child; _strength, give me strength_. He does, somehow, because even if, months ago, she told herself it would be better for their son if they stayed together, she knows now that it won’t. If Merlin stays with her, he will be forever torn in two, torn between her and Arthur, living half a life with her and their son, half a life in his mind with Arthur. Merlin will never be whole if she makes him stay with her, and none of them will be better for it.

“This isn’t working,” she says. “I love you, but this isn’t right. This isn’t how I want our son to be raised.”

“By his parents?” Merlin asks, borderline incredulous. “By his mother and father?”

“By his parents, _together_.”

X

This isn’t how Merlin was expecting today to turn out. It’s how he was expecting things to work out a few months ago, when he told Morgana the truth, because he couldn’t see any other way it could work out; Morgana, he would have said, is too proud to forgive the betrayal he and Arthur have acted out against her.

But she did, and for a time Merlin could see the rest of their lives playing out together, this first child followed by a second, maybe a third. It wouldn’t be perfect, wouldn’t be the life Merlin had pictured the day he asked her to marry him, but it would be a life, and they would be happy. Morgana would stay with him, they would raise their son together, and in time Merlin would learn how to love her more than anyone, would learn how to love her as he should, would forget why he ever wanted to leave.

This is not the day he thought they would have.

“But why?” he asks. “Everything’s been...I thought we were okay. And- just look at him. He's tiny and perfect and he deserves to have us together. He deserves to have a family."

"He'll have a family, Merlin. What he deserves is a home that isn't broken beyond repair."

"He has that," Merlin argues, because doesn't he? Isn't that what _'til death us do part_ means? "That's what we're giving him. Do you really want to throw that away?”

Morgana looks at him, expression flat as a canvas, blank as a fresh page. “Do you want to throw Arthur away, Merlin? If I made you choose, here and now, between me and him, could you do it?”

“I married you, didn’t I?” Merlin points out; surely that has to be all the evidence she needs. “I married you, and that’s my child you’re holding, and I know I messed up, I do, but I’m here.”

“I love you,” she says again, and it is wrong that they should be talking about this when she can’t stand up and face him, when she is pale and tired, her hair a bird’s nest and an ugly hospital gown her only clothing. It’s wrong that they should be talking about this at all, but it is worse that it is with her, this worn-out shadow of the woman he married. “I will probably always love you, Merlin, but that’s not enough. One day my brother will pull his head far enough out of his arse to tell you that he loves you, and you _will_ choose him.”

Her certainty leaves him silent for a second, and it is a second too long; she sighs, and Merlin knows that whatever words he comes up with to follow his silence, they will not be enough to fix this.

“You’ll choose him,” she repeats, softer but no less sure. “Even if you stay with me, you’ll have chosen him, and you’ll hate me for it as much as I’ll hate you. That isn’t the life I want my son to have.”

“Our,” Merlin corrects, the only argument he can still give, because she’s right, at least in part. He will choose Arthur – he already has, if he’s honest, if he accepts the existence of the morning he saw Gwaine leaving Arthur’s bedroom, undressed to kill, proving the lie of everything he said to Merlin the evening before – and it hardly matters that Arthur doesn’t choose him in return. But even if Merlin is willing to break his promises, throwing away his marriage vows and all the years he’s been with Morgana, he will not give her this. He will walk out on their life together, if she wants it, but he will not turn his back on their child. “He isn’t yours, he’s _ours._ ”

She smiles, letting him win that one, which is not what he expected, not really. “Ours,” she answers, agrees. “He’s ours, and this won’t change that. He will always be ours, and he deserves the best parts of us.”

“And you think we have to be apart for that,” Merlin states, flat, not a question, comprehending but only halfway to accepting.

“I’m not telling you this because I want you and Arthur to be happy together,” she tells him, an edge to it that is enough for Merlin to know she means it. “You know I’m nowhere near that selfless.”

_You are_ , Merlin thinks, looking at her face, at the gentleness that up until today he’d thought was for him alone. It may not be for him and Arthur that she does this, that she makes or maybe lets him go, but it is a long way from selfish.

“I love you,” he says, and it’s not an argument. It’s just a statement, a fact that no amount of time or distance between them will change, a truth entirely independent of the hole that was torn in his heart when he thought Arthur loved him and then made bigger by realising that he does not.

“I know you do,” she says. “Now, off you go. You can give us a lift home tomorrow.”

X

He stares at her for a long moment after that, and Morgana can almost feel his confusion, but that doesn’t change anything. She will have Merlin in her life, as will their son; he won’t be her husband, but he will be whole, as will their family, and one day Merlin will understand that is what matters most.

“Okay,” he agrees eventually, taking a step away from her bed, then one forwards again, looking not at her but at the well-blanketed bundle in her arms. “He needs a name.”

“Mordred,” she answers, then has to laugh at his expression. “What? Like you thought I’d choose something boring?”

“If he’s bullied at school, I’m blaming you.”

She laughs again at that, and if there’s an edge of a sob to it, only she and Merlin will ever know. “Go,” she says, and she knows he’ll hear the _go to him_ that follows it, even though she cannot make herself say it; feel it, yes, and mean it, but never say it.

“Okay,” he says again, and the step he takes into her space surprises her, almost as much as the kiss he presses to her lips, lightning quick and heartbeat slow. Her last kiss from him, over in a second. “I’ll see you both tomorrow.”

He’s at the door before her words come back, and for a second she thinks of holding them in a little longer, letting him go entirely, but the break will not be any cleaner for her silence now.

“Merlin,” she says, waiting until he turns to look at her, and it’s not hope on his face. She doesn’t know what it is, but it’s not that. “I don’t regret it.”

“Good to know,” he says, the barest hint of a laugh to it, as heartbroken as her own. “Until tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” she agrees, waiting until the door closes behind him before letting the first tear fall.

“Hush,” she says softly, as Mordred fusses in her arms. “Hush, love. It’ll all be okay.”

X

“Mr Emrys,” Uther says, looming up out of the darkness of the hallway like the devil. “Might I ask what you are doing here?”

“Erm,” Merlin says, because suddenly the whim that brought him to his (soon to be former) father-in-law’s house seems a lot more like insanity than it did when he first thought of it, back when he was leaving his and Morgana’s house with an overnight bag. “Morgana said I wasn’t to be in the house when she got back from the hospital, and I don’t actually have anywhere else to go.”

“I see,” Uther answers, seeming weary and not at all surprised, which is more than can be said for Merlin; it’d be nice if someone other than himself apparently didn’t think his marriage was doomed to failure from the very beginning. “Well, I suppose you’d better come in, then.”

X

Arthur’s phone can, from time to time, be upsettingly good at receiving communication from people, and when the screen lights up to inform him he has a new text from his sister, Arthur is pretty sure this one of those times.

_Expect a visitor,_ he reads, hating himself for being intrigued enough by that sentence to open the message and read the rest of it. _Probably no more than two hours._

Arthur stares, trying to figure that one out. Before he can succeed, though, it’s followed by a second text, also from his sister. _You have a nephew_ , this one says. _His name is Mordred. You may come with Merlin to see him tomorrow_.

The chances of that happening, Arthur thinks, are too small to be worth considering, and that is probably good enough reason to ignore the rest of her crap.

_Congratulations_ , he sends back, and is even more confused when Morgana’s reply to that is no more than an image of her right hand, middle finger raised. Surely no day can cement her victory over him better than this one does; what reason does his sister have to be unpleasant any longer?

X

Breakfast is awkward in the extreme, but Merlin can’t actually think of a less objectionable alternative to staying in Pendragon Hall, as he explains to Uther when he asks.

“I can’t go home,” he says, although he’s fairly sure that isn’t under any question; when Morgana makes her mind up, there’s very little powerful enough to change it and, having raised her, there’s no chance Uther doesn’t know that. “I can’t go to my mother’s, because no one can do _I told you so_ face like she can, and, anyway, it’s too far for me to drive over here to see them as often as I’d want to. Arthur hasn’t spoken to me in months, Gwaine is too busy to put up a guest, and no one else has an empty room I can sleep in. I assure you, sir, if I had any other options, I wouldn’t be here bothering you.”

“I imagine you wouldn’t,” Uther agrees, sounding as dry as the toast Merlin is currently trying to spread very solid butter on. “Still, at least this way my grandson won’t be growing up on the streets, and I might actually get to see him from time to time.”

“You can see him this afternoon,” Merlin offers before he can think better of it, think of the fact that Morgana might not actually want her father to visit before she’s out of the hospital. Still, the offer is made, and if Morgana wasn’t prepared to deal with things being difficult, she wouldn’t have made him leave; yes, the matter of Arthur makes things less than simple, but surely raising a child alone – or with someone else’s help, but in two separate places – is far more complicated.

“I can?” Uther asks, and for half a second he actually sounds shocked.

“I’m going to collect Morgana and Mordred from the hospital,” Merlin explains. “I don’t see why you shouldn’t come with me.”

“Mordred?”

“Her idea,” Merlin says, suspecting it’s probably not going to be the only time in his life he does so. “You must know how hard it is to argue with her and win.”

Uther smiles but doesn’t speak, a very Pendragon way of agreeing, and Merlin considers the matter closed; a relief, since his next step would be to point out that Uther named his daughter Morgana, of all things, and saying that cannot possibly go well.

X

Merlin puts his wedding ring on his bedside table before he leaves to collect Morgana from the hospital.

As an action, it’s almost nothing; as a gesture, it feels like it changes his world.

X

“Knock knock,” Merlin calls from the other side of the curtain around her hospital bed, then steps through. He goes straight to the crib and picks up Mordred, continuing speaking before Morgana can protest that she just got him to go to sleep. “You have a visitor, I hope that’s okay.”

“Of course,” Morgana says; it stings that Merlin has actually brought Arthur, that they’re already together, but since she invited her brother it’s not like she can deny him access.

“See,” Merlin says, looking back over his shoulder for barely a second before returning his gaze to their son. “I said she wouldn’t mind too much.”

“That remains to be seen,” her father answers, and even after he’s walked in and is gazing at her son, Morgana still finds herself wondering where her brother is.

It’s not until Uther climbs, without a word of complaint, into the back of Merlin’s car beside Mordred’s travel seat that Morgana realises something is desperately wrong.

X

Arthur successfully ignores Morgana’s calls and messages for more than a fortnight. It’s a shitty thing to do, when she’s just had her baby, but Arthur isn’t ready to see just how happy she and Merlin are with their perfect new family.

It’s Gwaine who tells him about the break-up, with an expression of immense incredulity, like he thinks Arthur is somehow magically supposed to know all the ins and outs of his sister’s life; that level of knowledge between them has always been strictly one-way, and it hasn’t existed for some time now, anyway.

“What?” he asks, a tad ashamed of how surprised he sounds.

“She left him,” Gwaine repeats, sitting on the same sofa he and Arthur got a little too friendly on all those months ago. “Threw him out, even, if you want the whole truth.”

Arthur gapes a little more, and if it wasn’t for the fact that he’s been trying to sober up some since their little mishap and the entirely unrelated promotion that came not long after it, he’d be deciding he’s just not drunk enough for this conversation. “That makes no sense,” he points out. “She loves him.”

Gwaine shrugs, apparently missing the argument Arthur is making here, so Arthur carries on. “He loves her, too.”

Gwaine shrugs a second time.

“Why?”

“Sometimes, princess,” Gwaine says, “Shit just happens. Best answer I can give. You want anything more than that, I reckon you should probably ask one of them.”

“Maybe,” Arthur agrees, not really intending to follow through with it.

Still, when his father calls one Friday, six weeks after Morgana’s weird text about the baby and the visitor who never showed up, ordering him to stop being ridiculous and start attending their family Sunday lunches again, he sees more harm in refusing than in agreeing; if Merlin and Morgana are over, Merlin isn’t going to be there, and Arthur can find out how much of what Gwaine told him about the breakup is bullshit.

X

“I trust you have something more respectable to wear than that,” Uther says at breakfast on Sunday. “Morgana and Arthur will be joining us for dinner before she and Mordred spend the night, and it is not an occasion for jeans.”

“Ah,” Merlin says, not entirely sure he can imagine a more awkward meal than that is going to be, equally unsure of his ability to find a way not to be there. “I’ll put a suit on.”

Uther nods, although his silence leaves Merlin wondering what it is he isn’t saying. Morgana and Arthur’s refusal to say anything more than they wish to is clearly inherited, though, and Merlin knows better than to try get any more from him; he finishes his eggs and toast, then goes upstairs to change.

It’s little more than a spiteful whim, but when he’s done tightening the tie around his neck, he slides his wedding ring back on; Morgana won’t care, if she even notices, but he’s pretty sure that Arthur will.

X

The first thing Arthur notices is that the baby is pretty much a perfect blend of Merlin and Morgana’s best features. The second is that the thing doesn’t seem to like him at all, judging by the way it shrieks when Morgana shoves it into his arms.

The third, and probably the most surprising, is that there, standing behind Morgana, is Merlin, watching his wife and his child, his perfect little family, with a look of utter adoration on his face; he might not be living with them, but it is very clear where Merlin’s feelings still lie.

X

“You’re still wearing your ring,” Arthur says, when it’s just the two of them left in the dining room, Morgana having gone to change the baby, Uther making up some bullshit excuse to follow her after a minute. It’s not as if he really needs confirmation that Merlin still loves Morgana but, then again, it’s not like anything Merlin says is going to make him feel any worse than he does already, so he might as well say it.

“What?” Merlin asks, looking down at his hand like it’s a surprise to him that it’s there, like he hasn’t noticed Arthur staring at his hand the whole meal (and, knowing Merlin, he probably hasn’t). “Yeah, I guess. I’m still her husband. I’m sure she’ll remember that sometime soon.”

“I see,” Arthur manages, after a very long pause, and he was wrong; it makes him feel a hell of a lot worse.

X

“What the hell is this?” Arthur asks, when he finally manages to grab a second of his sister’s time without her having Merlin’s screaming, squalling offspring in her arms. “You could have warned me Merlin was going to be here!”

“Merlin lives here now,” his sister answers, like that’s at all normal, like Arthur should have realised that before he got here. “You didn’t think he’d still be living in the house after we split up, did you? That’s ridiculous.”

Arthur stares at her, baffled and a little awed at his sister’s completely absent grasp of logic. “As opposed to, say, _him living with our father_? Do you not realise how insane that is?”

Morgana stares back at him, equally baffled. “I _thought_ he would go to you.”

That, Arthur thinks, is just as crazy; as hard as he has worked to avoid seeing Merlin since the wedding, so Merlin seems to have worked to stay away from him since the morning after he and Morgana announced their pregnancy. “Well,” he says, doing his best to sound like someone stating the absolute, undeniable obvious. “Clearly, he didn’t.”

“Clearly,” Morgana agrees, seeming impossibly wearied by the whole thing. “I left my husband because he loves you more than he will ever love me, because you love him just as much in return, and because I will _not_ have my son’s life poisoned by my decision to keep Merlin trapped in that life with me. So, Arthur, you tell me. Why is Merlin living here, with our father, rather than with you?”

_You’re being crazy again_ , Arthur thinks, but he’s far too intelligent to say it; Morgana might let him calling her insane slide once, but a second time is definitely one too many. “I don’t know,” he says, too tired to bother with trying to solve Morgana’s riddles. “Why _would_ I know? I’m not the one who dumped him.”

Morgana raises an eyebrow at him. “Didn’t you?”

“Merlin hasn’t spoken to me in months, Morgana,” Arthur points out. “ _He_ hasn’t spoken to _me_ , not the other way around.”

“ _Why?_ ”

“ _I don’t know,_ ” Arthur repeats, in what is possibly the most extreme and unnecessary case of stating the obvious ever. “One minute he was yelling at me for sleeping with him when we were stupidly drunk, the next he’d gone from showing up at my house every other day to refusing to do anything more than acknowledge my existence whenever you put us in the same room together. Whatever it was that made him come here, it wasn’t me.”

X

By this point, Morgana has had quite enough of her brother’s denials and his idiocy, and possibly enough of this discussion all together. Unfortunately, she would quite like the sheer stupidity that is her brother and her ex-husband’s relationship to resolve itself (largely because Arthur is right; it is seriously weird that Merlin is living here, and she's fed up with having to stay here just because Merlin wants time with their son) which means she has to listen and, far more annoyingly, she has to ask.

“Right,” she says. “Tell me what happened, starting from the beginning, and if you could actually make sense, that would be wonderful. After you left our announcement dinner, what happened?”

“I went home,” Arthur answers, still in his _well, duh_ voice. “I drank, Gwaine showed up, we drank some more, and then we went to bed. In separate rooms, before you say anything.”

“I wasn’t going to,” Morgana says, although his hasty need to add that last bit does make her wonder a little whether she should. “I’m not sure when you and Gwaine became such good friends, but I’m more interested in what you did to piss off Merlin.”

He flinches at that, and while Morgana no longer feels quite so jubilant at that, it’s still a little gratifying. Even if it wasn’t, though, it would still be necessary for her to get Merlin out of this place; if Morgana had wanted her son to be raised here half the time, she would have moved back herself rather than making Merlin leave.

“He showed up,” Arthur says, “the following morning, while I was still feeling like crap. Shouted at me through the letterbox until I let him in, threatening to tell everyone in hearing range what we… The kind of things I didn’t want strangers to know. He said he remembered, I told him it was a mistake, apologised, and then pointed out that nothing would have changed anyway. He agreed, said you’d be worrying, and left. We’ve barely spoken since. End of story.”

Morgana tries not to scoff, fails miserably, and then sighs when Arthur looks horribly put out. “You’re missing something, little brother,” she says, because he has to be; it had to be more than that that brought Merlin back to her. She doesn’t believe Gwaine was lying when he said he’d told Merlin the truth about Arthur’s feelings, which means Arthur is either lying now or that there is some crucial detail he has forgotten or, knowing her brother, never actually noticed in the first place. “Try again.”

“Fine,” Arthur snaps, leaning forwards, his elbows on the table, expression very much a glare, and Morgana suspects this is going to hurt quite a lot; she didn’t miss his attempt to spare her feelings earlier, and the complete change in his attitude pretty much suggests that he’s done with that entirely. “Fine, Morgana. Merlin stood outside the door telling me that he remembered, and when I didn’t open the door right away, he elaborated. I seem to recall that when I let him in he was midway through recounting how I sucked him off in the spare bedroom – you know, the one you used to sleep in with him occasionally, back when you were together, and did I ever thank you for the hugely expensive hand-lotion you left there last time you stopped over?”

She can’t not flinch at that, and for a second the look Arthur gives her is triumphant, like this is the biggest victory he can imagine winning today. Only a second, and then he just looks as tired and sad as Morgana feels. “He made coffee,” Arthur continues, this time without the edge of venom, which is probably the closest thing she’ll get to an apology from him. “We talked about what happened, and he said he didn’t blame me for it, that the only thing _wrong_ with what we did was the fact that he was engaged to you. Then Gwaine stuck his head out of my bedroom, asked if he could take a shower, and apparently Merlin changed his mind about the wrongness because that’s when he left.”

That, Morgana realises, is the detail Arthur seems to have missed, and it’s so incredibly huge that she finds herself wondering how on earth he managed not to walk right into it. “Gwaine?” she asks.

“That’s what I said.”

“He stayed the night,” she adds, since he isn’t quite there yet.

“In a different room,” Arthur argues. “I told you that bit already.”

“You did,” Morgana agrees, feeling the beginning of a very painful headache crawling up her temples, the kind that makes her grateful she and Mordred are here tonight rather than at home; when their son wakes up crying in the middle of the night, Merlin can be the one to look after him. “Am I to assume that you told Merlin as well? That, before you allowed him to start talking, you warned him that there was someone else in your flat, in _your bedroom_ , and that, apparently, you’ve taken to sleeping in the spare room?”

His silence is as detailed an answer as she could ask for, and even through the physical pain of talking to her idiot of a brother and the entirely non-physical pain of talking to him about how to fix his relationship with her ex-husband, Morgana cannot quite hold back a smile.

“So,” she says, feeling the need to sum up how stupid this all is, just in case Arthur has managed to miss _that_ as well. “Merlin turns up to tell you he remembers sleeping with you, the two of you have a nice, long conversation, he as good as tells you he doesn’t regret it, and then you’re interrupted by Gwaine, who walks out of _your bedroom_ – and, knowing him, he was probably missing at least some of his clothing – and asks to take a shower, all of which leaves me with only have one question. How is it that you don’t know why Merlin isn’t living with you?”

Arthur looks downtrodden and defeated, not at all like someone realising that all he has to do to win the man he loves is tell him that he and Gwaine are not now and never have been together. “I think you’re missing something pretty important, Morgana,” he says, standing up. “He still thinks the two of you are going to work things out.”

Morgana looks at him, and if she was pleased with her ability to work through Arthur’s nonsense a few minutes ago, now she’s lost again. “Arthur, what-?”

“You’ll excuse me, Morgana,” he says, cutting across her like he never even realised she was speaking. “I’m going home; if you wish to continue discussing the state of your marriage, I suggest you do so with your husband.”

X

Merlin hums distractedly, Mordred in his arms, close to sleep but not quite there yet.

“I don’t know what Uncle Arthur’s problem is,” he says softly, although, thankfully, not in that annoying baby-talk voice Morgana seems to have adopted of late; just because Mordred is only tiny, it doesn’t mean Merlin ought to speak only in a sing-song to him. “You’re lovely, aren’t you, little man. He’s just being grumpy.”

In the timeliest punctuation Merlin’s come across in a long time, the front door slams closed; he looks out the window of Mordred’s nursery, watching as Arthur storms across the gravel driveway and unlocks his car, climbing into the driver’s seat. He doesn’t drive off, though, just sits, his head in his hands, and there is a possibility Merlin feels a little bit guilty; he may have only exchanged a few words with Arthur, but they were a long way from being his best.

“Merlin?” Morgana calls softly from the doorway. “Is he asleep?”

“Sulking, I think,” Merlin answers, then realises she’s probably talking about their baby rather than her brother. “I mean, almost. He will be in a few minutes, I think.”

“Okay,” she says. “I’ll wait until he’s down. We need to talk.”

Unfortunately, Mordred decides that, despite the noise of Arthur slamming the door, and now the crunch of his tires rolling over the gravel, this is the best possible time to yawn, wave his arm one last time, and then fall to sleep. It’s probably the first time Merlin has wished his son was awake and shrieking at him, because talking with Morgana has never been simple and talking with her now is probably only going to be worse.

Morgana’s freakish ability to know everything is just as active now as it ever has been, though; within seconds of Merlin placing Mordred down in his crib, she’s pushing the door open, beckoning him into the hall with such absolute surety that he will obey that Merlin finds he has to.

“What’s up?” he asks, quietly enough that his voice shouldn’t disturb Mordred through the half-open door.

“Merlin,” she says, then sighs, looking down for a second and taking what Merlin can only consider an unnecessarily deep breath before continuing softly, almost sorrowfully. “You know I’ve filled out the papers for a divorce, don’t you?”

“I do,” Merlin agrees, slowly, feeling very much like he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“We’re not getting back together,” she continues.

“Yeah, I’ve worked that much out, too,” Merlin says, and now that he’s muddled his way through her reasoning he can agree with her, can even manage to be something like friends with her, although he’s fairly sure that will still turn to ash and venom sometimes.

Morgana looks a little surprised, more so by his tone than his words, Merlin thinks; she has to know that he’d say that even if he didn’t mean it, because admitting weakness is not at all the way to win Morgana over. “Okay,” she says, one last moment of care before she apparently decides that defenestrating caution is obviously the way to go. “So, why did you tell Arthur we would?”

“Ah,” Merlin says, since that about covers the state of his mind right now. “What happened to you being too selfish to wish Arthur and me happiness?”

She laughs, a little insane and a lot wonderful, and, really, this whole thing would be far easier if she was a total bitch who made their breakup unbearable for him. At least that way, he wouldn’t have to feel guilty about it, about Arthur.

“That,” she says, still smiling, “was before I realised the pair of you are too dumb to find it without my help.”

Merlin thinks of a thousand things to say, discarding them all: _I was happy_ ; _it hasn’t even been a month_ ; _Arthur doesn’t want me anyway._ As it often is when talking with Morgana, silence seems by far the smartest approach.

“Talk to him,” she instructs, when it becomes apparent he’s not going to answer. “Tell him the truth. And, for fu- for God’s sake, stop wearing the ring. The two of you are never going to work this out if you keep goading him.”

She whirls, as much of a drama queen as ever, and stalks away down the hall, getting out of there just before Mordred starts crying.

X

A promotion sounded great in principle, Arthur thinks, but in practice, not so much. It’s one thing to be at work constantly because he can’t bear to be sat at home thinking about Morgana and Merlin shagging, but it’s another entirely to be there because he has to be, because there’s no other way to do everything he has to do.

Still, he accepted it, for a short time felt like it was his reward, something he deserved for all he’d put in, karma’s way of saying _here, you were fucked over when it came to your personal life, so at least let me help you out professionally_ , and he can’t back out now.

Plus, if he’s not at home, he can’t answer Morgana’s calls demanding he babysit for her when she goes out for a meal with Gwen and Lance, can’t be expected to obey Uther’s orders-disguised-as-invitations to join he and Merlin for dinner.

It’s not really a whole lot better than running away and hiding in a bottle, but at least this way he’s not trying to shag any of the few friends he has left, friends that are only going to reject him because he’s still hopelessly gone on Merlin. As far as Arthur’s concerned, that’s enough of an improvement for him to keep showing up.

X

Uther looks down the length of the table, watching as Merlin attempts to convince Mordred to eat the jar of disgusting mulch he’s holding, and fights the urge to hide his head in his hands.

For some reason, when he agreed to let the Emrys boy live with him, he expected it to be for a week or two, at most a month, and yes, Uther is sure that flat-hunting with a baby and very little disposable income isn’t easy, but it’s now been six months, which is most definitely too long.

It is not that he objects to having his grandson in the house – indeed, from time to time, Uther actually appreciates Merlin’s presence, too, after so many years living only with Geoffrey’s slightly sycophantic company – but once in a while it might be nice to have company of the female persuasion without worrying about it getting back to his daughter.

As if that isn’t enough, he has his daughter yelling at him to kick her ex-husband out, his son sulking and refusing to spend any time with him, and it feels like he hasn’t actually slept through the night without being woken by a screaming child in months.

Something has to give and, since this is his home, it is certainly not going to be him.

X

When his mobile rings at half four in the morning, Arthur is too sleep-lagged to think of looking at the name on the display before answering it, which is how he ends up being yelled at by his father well before his first cup of coffee.

Or, more accurately, he’s being whispered at by his father, but it’s very definitely an angry whisper.

“Arthur Pendragon,” his father hisses. “You will come here this evening. I have some papers you need to see.”

“You what?” Arthur asks, half-convinced that he’s still asleep, or ideally hallucinating (then again, he usually hopes he’s hallucinating when he talks to his father, and the timing of this call doesn’t help matters). “Father, it’s the middle of the night.”

“You will be here,” Uther repeats. “I shall see you in the library at seven.”

The line is dead before Arthur can rustle up an objection.

X

Merlin is in the midst of enjoying a very lonely bowl of instant noodles and indulging in some completely unnecessary self-pity when Geoffrey comes to find him, looking excessively sombre.

“You have a visitor, Mr Emrys,” he says, sounding as far from deferential as is possible.

“ _I_ have a visitor?” Merlin answers, since this is the first time anyone has come here with the express purpose of seeing him since he moved in (Morgana doesn’t count, since she’s mostly coming so that she can hand over Mordred). “Are you sure he’s not here for Uther?”

Geoffrey frowns at him, looking deeply patronising. “I do know the difference between you and my employer, Mr Emrys,” he says. “He’s waiting the library.”

“It’s Professor Plum with the lead piping, isn’t it?” Merlin says, and if he was expecting laughter he would’ve been terribly disappointed. “Thanks, Geoffrey,” he adds, bleak, then makes his way to the library, Geoffrey following despite his repeated protests that he knows the way.

“Here you are, sir,” Geoffrey says, pushing open the door and holding it open for him; Merlin is too baffled by the unusual and most definitely unexpected title tacked onto that statement to pay too much attention to the room he’s walking into.

And then the door locks behind him.

X

“God,” Merlin says, when he finally manages to find words again. “Your father is a devious bastard. He told me he had a business meeting this evening.”

Arthur laughs, and it sounds tense to his own ears. Of course, he is tense, so it’s not exactly a surprise, but it might be nice if he could have kept that fact to himself.

“He left us booze, though,” Merlin continues, waving to the cut glass decanter and glasses on the low table between the most and least comfortable chairs in the room. “You think that was deliberate?”

Arthur doubts it greatly, but since he’s locked in here with Merlin, he’s fairly sure he’s entitled to drink whatever alcohol he can find, and possibly start destroying things if they’re stuck in there too long. “You want?” He asks, crossing the room and pulling the stopper from the bottle in order to pour himself a glass that is probably rather more full than it ought to be.

Merlin takes the glass from him before he can get it to his mouth, taking a gulp and leaving Arthur to get a second glass for himself. He steals the good chair, too, which is just bloody typical, and Arthur is too tired to start a fight about it, really.

They’ve had enough of those lately, anyway.

The thing is, he’s fairly sure his father means well (or, no, not really; he’s sure his father means to mean well, which isn’t quite the same thing at all), but that doesn’t mean this is in any way, shape or form a reasonable plan. It would be, if this was any other fight, if he and Merlin were the same men they were a couple of years ago, but they aren’t. Things have changed, and Arthur isn’t even sure he would change them back if he knew how.

“So,” Merlin says eventually, breaking the silence that seems to have reigned forever. He swirls the glass in his hands, the soft browny-yellow liquid inside spiralling out and in, seeming just as hypnotised by it as Arthur is.

“So,” Arthur answers, then, for lack of anything better, turns to the one topic no new parent seems able to let go, even if it’s a topic he despises. “Is your son with his mother tonight?”

“ _My son_ has a name, Arthur,” Merlin says, his eyes rising from the glass before him, gaze intent and not a little angry. “He’s also your nephew, and even if you hate him I’d thank you not to talk about him like that.”

Arthur is too shocked by the anger in his voice to speak, to do anything other than nod blankly, feeling more than a little stupid. “Mordred,” he says, since that seems to be the concession Merlin wants of him, and a more stupid name for a child he’s not sure he’s heard in his life.

“Mordred,” Merlin agrees. “And yes, Morgana has him tonight.”

“Ah,” Arthur says, and he’s possibly a tad too beaten down by the sheer failure of that attempt at conversation to try again.

X

Whatever Uther was hoping to achieve from this stunt, Merlin is fairly sure it’s not this; he’s tipsy, Arthur’s tipsy, and what is probably a pretty expensive vintage of whisky is disappearing rather more quickly than it’s supposed to. They’re silent, too, and Merlin wishes he was still wearing his ring just because twisting it round and round his finger would give him something to do with his hands. Or maybe not _just_ , because, actually, he quite enjoyed the twisted expression on Arthur’s face when he asked him about it; mean and unpleasant of him, yeah, but it looked a lot like Merlin felt when he watched Gwaine walk out of Arthur’s bedroom half-naked.

“I don’t hate him,” Arthur says abruptly, breaking Merlin from his quagmire of jealousy. “Mordred, I mean. I hate that he exists, but as far as babies go, he’s no worse than the rest of them.”

“A great comfort, I’m sure,” Merlin says, and for a second he thinks he’s too tired to really argue it. For a second, but a second isn’t very long. “What does that mean, anyway? You hate that he exists but you don’t hate him?”

“Oh,” Arthur says, venomous rather than resigned, or any of the other things an _oh_ can sometimes sound. “Like you don’t know exactly what it means, Merlin.”

“Well, if I knew, I sure as hell wouldn’t be asking!”

“You married her! You married my fucking _sister,_ Merlin! Of course I hate anything that reminds me of that!”

Arthur’s standing by now, on his feet and yelling in a way that makes Merlin grateful for the strong stone walls and the inches-thick door; even if Geoffrey is the only one in the house right now, that doesn’t mean Merlin particularly wants this row to be overheard, and he’s sure that if Arthur was thinking properly he wouldn’t either.

“I didn’t know I had reason not to,” Merlin says, hot, just as loud as Arthur, because Arthur and Morgana have spent months - years, now - playing with him, lying and taking his choices from him and he's allowed to be pissed. It's his life, and if he'd known...Merlin softens, suddenly uncertain, a truth coming to him that he can’t leave unaddressed. “I still don’t, Arthur.”

“When was I supposed to tell you, Merlin? What the hell was it supposed to achieve?”

“Well, I might not have married her, for starters!”

Arthur’s expression can only be called a sneer, and it stings more than all the rest of the last two years put together. “Right,” Arthur says, and he’s quieter, too. “Because I wanted you to break my sister’s heart out of pity, obviously.”

“Pity?” Merlin asks. “Where the hell does pity come into this?”

Arthur sits again, sinking into himself, shoulders rounded and head down, the sort of bad posture Merlin can imagine him getting yelled at for as a child. It’s defeat, the same sort that has kept Merlin away from him all this time, the same look he can’t bear seeing on Arthur’s face now. He can’t believe he knows why it’s there, because everything Gwaine said about Arthur being in love with him was immediately countered by the fact that the two of them slept together, but there’s no way for Merlin to deny that the defeat is there.

“If you knew what we did,” Arthur says, which is a lot more of an admission that Merlin though he was going to get. “If you knew, you’d have left Morgana, and I already felt bad enough for the both of us. I wasn’t going to put that on you as well.”

“That’s guilt, Arthur,” Merlin points out. “It’s not the same thing as pity.”

Arthur laughs without humour, a concession that breaks Merlin’s heart. “Okay,” he says, even more downtrodden. “Pity is where you realised that I was in love with you, and you broke it off with Morgana so that I didn’t have to watch you marry her.”

X

Arthur never meant to say all of this, however often he’s thought it. The aftermath doesn’t play like it does in his imagination, of course, but then when he’s imagined it in the past he’s usually had his hand down his trousers, so it’s hardly any surprise that real life isn’t going the same way as his fantasies usually do.

If this was at all like his dreams, Merlin would be echoing him, _you’re in love with me?_ Merlin would echo him, surprise and relief and joy on his face, and then he would kiss him, soft for a second and then desperate, hungry, like he’d die if they ever separated. If this was like his dreams, Merlin wouldn’t stare at him wordlessly, looking like this is a revelation, something beyond both his wildest dreams and his fiercest nightmares.

“Was?” Merlin asks, when he finally regains the power of speech. It’s not really what Arthur was expecting.

“Was what?” he answers, bleak, because he’s just pretty much bared his soul to Merlin and that’s the reply he gets?

“You said _was,_ Arthur. Past tense.”

Arthur feels a flush of relief, so strong it makes him feel a little giddy; Merlin doesn’t know everything yet, doesn’t realise that Arthur’s feelings are so far endless and unshakeable. He doesn’t speak, though, because anything he says will say far too much.

Merlin doesn’t let it drop, because, except for his silence over the last couple of months, Merlin has never let anything drop. “Don’t ignore me, Arthur,” he says. “Did you mean _was_ , like, _I was in love with you but now I’m not,_ or _was_ as in, _I’m talking about that specific occasion, but nothing has changed since then and I’m still in love with you_?”

Arthur shakes his head, unable to answer, because answering will only dig himself in further.

“Which is it?” Merlin demands. “Tell me, Arthur, because I need to know if I went back to my wife for nothing that morning.”

“Which morning?” Arthur asks, unable to stop himself, fully aware of how stupid it is, how he’s not so much shooting himself in the foot as welding a grenade to it before pulling the pin. “And _went back to_? You…you were…”

“I was leaving her,” Merlin agrees, finishing the end of the sentence Arthur barely even managed to start. “When we told you all that she was pregnant and you left, Gwaine stopped me following you. He told me that I’d already fucked your life up enough, that there was no way in hell he was going to let me do anything else to hurt you, and then when he realised just how much I didn’t understand what he was talking about, he told me you were in love with me.”

“He told you that?” Arthur asks, feeling even more like a sugar cube dropped into a cup of hot coffee; disintegrating, dissolving, generally facing destruction.

“He told me that,” Merlin agrees, something dry and uncomfortable to it, as tired and dismal as Arthur feels. “Of course, since he apparently went over to yours after telling me that, I wasn’t putting a whole lot of stock in his word.”

_You should have done_ , Arthur thinks; it’s not very often that he’d consider something Gwaine says worth the breath it takes to speak it, but this time, Gwaine is more than a little right. Gwaine couldn’t actually be any more right, and until Arthur knows what that means for him and Merlin, he’s not going to let him know that.

Still, there’s something he can say, and if Morgana has any idea what she’s talking about, this might actually be helpful.

“Nothing happened,” Arthur says, and even though it’s not the complete and utter truth, it’s something, and it’s something Merlin needs to hear. “Between Gwaine and me, nothing happened.”

Merlin laughs, broken and a little crazy. “Even if he hadn’t pranced practically naked out of your bedroom, the fact that your face looked like you’d been making out with a cactus kind of gave the game away, not to mention the massive bruise on your neck. I’m sure you can understand why I don’t believe that, can’t you?”

There’s the rest of the truth, then, and as much evidence as Arthur needs to know that he needs to talk further; the alternative is pointing out that at the time, Merlin was still married, which won’t make anything any better. “Okay,” he agrees. “We were drunk, and we ended up very briefly horizontal on the sofa, but that’s it. We both stopped before it really got any further than kissing.”

“And the fact that he slept in your bedroom?”

Arthur sighs; too much truth, too much honesty but he has to be nearly there, has to have told nearly everything, nearly enough. “I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve slept in my bed since we were together, Merlin. You can believe me or not, but I promise you, what happened with Gwaine was nothing compared to us.”

“Us,” Merlin says, like he’s tasting the word, trying it out before he makes a decision. “Us,” he says a second time, more feeling to it. “I miss there being an us, Arthur.”

“So do I,” Arthur admits, and if confessing to Morgana all those months ago did nothing for him, this helps. This is what people mean when they say _the truth shall set you free_.

“I was going to leave her,” Merlin says, and even if it seems something of a non-sequitur, Arthur thinks he’s just backstepping through the conversation, to the part where Gwaine wasn’t an issue. “He told me you were in love with me, I remembered what happened, and everything made perfect sense, the way it never quite did with Morgana. I came to tell you that, and that I was going to leave her for you, and...”

“And Gwaine was there,” Arthur says, finishing the sentence when Merlin seems unable to do so. “Sodding Gwaine.”

“Sodding Gwaine,” Merlin agrees, but he’s smiling, smiling like Arthur never thought he’d see from him again, certainly never directed at him again. “So, since you’re apparently too scared to say it first, I will. You’re still my world, Arthur. You always will be.”

“I’m still in love with you,” Arthur answers, the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but. “I don’t think there’ll ever be a time when I’m not.”

“Better not be,” Merlin says, and Arthur sort of feels the need to burst into song. He won’t, because that would be horribly embarrassing and might actually change Merlin’s mind (it’s not often Arthur will admit to not being good at something, but even he can’t argue that his singing is anything other than atrocious).

“I think I’m going to kiss you now, if that’s okay,” he says instead, and the bounce to it is nervous joy, not a tune, honest.

He doesn’t give Merlin chance to object, but then the complete lack of hesitancy that meets him is enough reason for Arthur to know he doesn’t have to.

X

Arthur lost count of the days an eternity ago, stopped keeping track of the mornings he wakes up beside Merlin, the nights where a quiet _I love you_ from his best friend of nineteen and a half years is the last thing he hears before sleep. Of course, every other week he gets woken up by a toddler who has yet to master sleeping through the night, but if getting Merlin means getting Mordred too (and Merlin was very insistent that it did, after that first kiss in the library), Arthur can live with it.

It's been forever, he thinks, since his life with Merlin started, and it's been no time at all.

Things with Morgana aren’t simple and straightforward, not the way they were before, but no one is stupid enough to think that they could be. It’s awkward, she’s sometimes cold with him and with Merlin, and every now and again she puts up an argument about leaving Mordred with them when it’s Merlin’s week, just because she can; Arthur thinks it’s probably because she wants to prove to him that she can still make Merlin jump through hoops to please her, and tries very hard not to blame her for it. She’s trying, as much as Arthur and Merlin are, and that is all any of them can do.

The parcel that arrives on their doorstep with the post this morning is unexpected. It's nothing fancy, nothing big, nothing like the extravagant gifts Morgana gives for birthdays and Christmases and other random occasions when she sees something one of them might want. It's definitely her writing on the address label – though he doesn’t know why she felt the need to post whatever it is rather than just hand-deliver it when she drops Mordred off with them tomorrow – and it's Arthur’s name on it, only his.

Arthur opens it without bothering to wait for Merlin to get up and come downstairs, using a key from in the bowl by the front door to cut through the unnecessary amount of tape his sister puts on every single thing she wraps.

He barely glances at the box inside, dark blue velvet, instead putting it and the keys down, unfolding the letter from his sister and reading it slowly.

_My dearest little brother_ , he reads, and immediately fights the urge to correct her, even if a) she's right and b) she’s not here to hear him do it.

_My dearest little brother,_

_I know diamonds aren't to your usual taste, but this is yours. It belongs to the one who holds Merlin's heart, and that's you. Don’t tell him you have it, if you can; I don’t want to have to explain this to him._

_You, though... Arthur, you will understand. This, like Merlin, is yours. It always has been, and always will be. Thank you for letting me borrow them both for so long._

_All my love to both of you,_

_M_

"Morning," Merlin says, the stairs creaking under his feet. "Whatcha got there?"

Arthur glances at the letter once more, then folds it in half, then half again, sticking it in the pocket of his jeans. "Nothing," he says, smiling as he turns to his lover. "Just the post."

Merlin's answering smile says he doesn't believe a word Arthur's saying, just as clearly as actually telling him that would, but that's fine. There are things that matter more than this.

"I love you," he says, pressing his lips to Merlin's, just a peck, threading a hand through his hair.

"I love you, too," Merlin answers, and the kiss he offers Arthur in return is a lot more than a peck, tongue and teeth and a warmth that means more to Arthur than anything in the world.

Beside the keys to his and Merlin's home, Merlin's mother's engagement ring sparkles.


End file.
